Beasts and Butterflies
by aberrantstrain
Summary: This story features vomit!Draco, queer!Harry, alive!Sirius, Death-Eater!Ginny. An AU of unusual persuasion. Contains smoking, evil ambiance, drinking, murder, cannibalism, and Harry x Draco. I wrote it when I was sixteen and horribly drug addicted, lol enjoy. FINALLY CAPITALIZED.
1. The Death Eaters

friday night

The muggle house was quiet as they crept through its open windows, left unlocked and ajar to banish the unseasonable heat.

They danced like wraiths, like shadows through the cottage, faceless and safe beneath their flawless white masks. Jeering at the sleeping muggle family like nightmarish jesters, their arms began to jerk and twitch wildly as if they were bloodless puppets suspended from deranged, uncertain strings.

None of this bothered the blonde boy, as he stood back and watched, gray eyes flicking back and forth behind his mask. He watched them sway and move, watched them draw their wands and begin to weave an intricate, strange enchantment over the sleeping muggle couple.  
>As the spell reached its crescendo, they began to laugh; and Draco, unknowing, laughed as well; This wasn't so bad, even if receiving the dark mark had been unpleasant- no, Draco was feeling fine.<p>

Until suddenly, the others began to wail and scream, descending upon the muggles as if they were ravaged and wild. They made quick work of it, stripping the couple of their bedclothes and laying open their chests with quick knives that flashed in the moonlight.

He stood back, out of the way, still unsure what his brethren were doing. Something wasn't right...

Draco watched his father hunch over the corpse and eat, teeth ripping the tenderwet meat from the man's ribs in long, juicy strips. It was almost as if the mask itself had become his father's face. As his jaw unhinged and stretched, allowing lucius to gag down the lower half of an arm, Draco screamed in agonized, disbelieving horror.

He ran blindly from the room and down the hall, away from his father and the others. His boots stomped against the cottage's carpeted floors, mind so numb with fear that rational thought simply would not register. He flung himself, hysterical, into the first room he could, fingers fumbling desperately with the lock on the doorknob.

As he slid down the door, his breath hitched in frantic, miserable gasps.

His father's grotesquely twisting face seemed burned into Draco's very eyes and he blinked, attempting to banish the vision of the dead man's arm sliding slowly down Lucius' stretched throat, fingers vanishing beyond the pale scape of his father's lips and smooth, white, grinning face.

A hand rose to cover his mouth, suppressing soundless, terrified sobs. I'm not here. This isn't happening. I'm not here. I'm not here. This isn't happening. I am not here.

"Mummy?"

With a click, Draco was bathed in soft golden light-a terrible, ironic contradiction to the ungodly feast going on through out the rest of the cottage. He found himself in a child's room, painted deep blue and littered with muggle toys.

Across from him, a little boy was sitting straight up in his bed, clutching his teddy tightly to his chest in innocent fear.

"Who're you?" the little boy demanded. "Where's my mummy?"

The boy couldn't of been more than five, some shell-shocked part of Draco's mind rationalized. Numbly, it also occurred to him that the little boy did not know that in the next room his parents were long dead and being devoured nearly-whole. He watched the child throw the covers from his small legs and pad towards him across the floor, before stopping to tugging at the doorknob.

With a frown, the little boy unlocked the door.

"Move." the small boy commanded, and Draco did so, unthinking.

As the little boy disappeared out into the dark hallway, Draco closed his eyes and clenched his fists to keep his hands from shaking. He knew what was coming; all he had to do was wait.

Soon, he heard the child scream, heard him running back down the hall. All at once, the door slammed and Draco's ears and eyes were ravaged by the child. "!" the little boy shrieked, his face wet with the automatic downpour of tears that always came when one so little is frightened. "WHATDIDTHEYDOTOTHEM? YOU'RE ONE OF THEM, AREN'T YOU? I'M AFRAID! I WANT MY MUMMY!"

Draco blinked, seizing the child's frail wrists hard, trying his best to still the child as he thrashed and wept.

"Shh. be quiet. You don't want them to hear you. You have to be quiet."

He felt wrong as he whispered the words, wrong as his fingers clenched themselves tighter around the little boy's wrists.

"You're hurting me.." the little boy whimpered, trying fatalistically to pull away from the older boy.

"I'm not going to hurt you." Draco murmured, blinking as the mask slipped down over his face and out of his pale hair. "I'm not going to hurt you at all.."

Saturday

Draco awoke with sunlight in his eyes and the distant ringing of sirens in his ears.

He shifted and groaned, lifting his face from its place upon the floor. His eyes opened and he tore the silver mask from his face, heart beginning to speed in a rising panic as the events of the night before came back to him in washes of crimson recollection. Sitting up, a horrified little noise flew from his mouth when he realized he was completely covered in sticky, coagulated blood. It was in the cracks of his skin, matted in his hair, caked beneath his fingernails.

The thick, rust coloured fluid had soaked through his robes, which clung, crusty and uncomfortably to his body. Glancing around, he realised the entire room was a mess.

It looked as though the walls had been bathed in torrents of blood. The floor was streaked, pooled, stained and most of all, sticky. The innocent muggle toys now looked soiled and dark, almost threatening in the morning light.

All at once, Draco scrambled upward from his place on the floor, face contorting in absolute revulsion when he saw what had been lying on the floor beside him.

It was the little boy.

Or, more accurately, what was left of him.

His small, demolished body was curled fetal, a cold, half eaten carcass lying with its limbs in a broken tangle. His face however, was soft and pale, his cheek resting in the pathetic aftermath of his own red mortality.

Draco stumbled backwards, mouth gaping soundlessly as he beheld what... he had done? His stomach clenched and he spun on his heels, racing from the room and out into the upstairs hall.

It seemed as though the entire second floor of the cottage had borne witness to a nightmarish smattering of blood, bodily fluids and little bits of gore, and the warm morning air carried an overwhelming stench of shit and ensuing decay.

Through the halls and rooms of the unfamiliar house he ran, lost. Where was everyone? The realization came upon him slowly: his father and the others had left him behind.

Searching desperately for a way out, he finally found his exit in the living room: a window had been broken sometime over the course of the night, and with the ever-present sound of Scotland Yard's sirens piercing his ears, he scrambled through the window and ran into the woods, without so much a backward glance.

Judging from the way the sun shone high and blistering in the bright blue sky, it was sometime after noon before he finally allowed himself to relax.

When he had started running, he had been absolutely, blindly hysterical, tears pouring thoughtlessly down his cheeks as he pumped his long legs away from the scene of his crime.

But now he was calm, and furthermore, lost, completely unsure of the direction in which he was traveling. His feet ached in their beautifully tall, uncomfortable boots, ankles often and mercilessly twisted when he misplaced his footing.

When the shrill scream of the sirens died away, he stopped to rest, bathing his hands and face in the cool, clear water of a late summer stream. The blood washed away almost too easily, red wafting lazily through the gently flowing water. When he withdrew his hands they were cold, but clean. No more blood.

As he wandered the forest, miserable and tired, he wasn't quite sure what upset him more: the fact that he had eaten another human being, the fact that he had watched his father eat another human being, or the fact that he had been left behind.

The trees were growing thinner, giving way to smooth green grass.

He came to a clearing and a spark of hope lit inside him. ..yes, this was familiar. He dimly recalled.. oh. please, god.

His pale eyes searched the edge of the clearing and, drawing a breath, he saw what he was looking for. There, nearly hidden, was the path.

Determined, he marched the distance and began the official journey home.

"Here, Harry!"

Fred hovered nearly six feet above the ground, bat in hand. He tossed the tennis ball upward and hit it with a delightfully aggressive smack.

Harry squinted into the sky, watching as the ball sailed away, over the tree tops, and made its descent somewhere within the forest. Ron, who stood behind him, looked up at Harry, hand shielding his eyes from the harsh sun.

"Now you know why i won't play with them. They're cruel, Harry." George, grinning, swooped over and dismounted.

"Sorry, Harry, but you *are* the seeker."

"You aren't really going to make him go get that, are you?" Ron asked, frowning.

"yes," Both the twins answered in unison, grinning. Their idea of cheering harry up was to give him as hard a time as they possibly could. As the dark-haired Gryffindor began to rise upon his broom, Fred pulled him down.

"It'll be easier on foot the problem with flying over a forest is finding a good place to land," he said, and George nodded.

"Once I landed in a tree, had pine needles stuck in my arse for weeks."

Harry smiled and dismounted, handing Ron his broom. "Take my aggression out on them for me, all right?"

"Right." Ron nodded and grinned, and Harry made his way across the lawn and into the forest after the lost tennis ball.

The sun filtered through the trees sweetly, warming his shoulders and the back of his neck with a tender, earthy indifference. It really was nice out, and he tugged at his sweater, pulling it off. Ron (with the twin's assistance, of course) had practically dragged him outside, seizing him forcefully by the elbows and claiming that the sunshine would do him some good.

"Let's have a game of quidditch," they had said, even asking Percy to join in. Harry knew what his friends had really meant... that maybe he would feel better if he came outside and got some air. And, he had to admit, it had worked.

Things were definitely looking up. He would be going back to school tomorrow, and it couldn't possibly get any worse from there, could it?

He smiled to himself. Yes, definitely looking up...

Draco moved down the path, searching desperately for the portkey that would take him back to the moors.

When he had realised that his hellish trek was nearly at its end, he had slowly, but surely begun to grow irritated and impatient, wanting only to find the damned thing and get home.

He wanted.. no, he needed a bath. Draco blinked and started. He could see someone moving through the trees, coming directly toward him, walking in a slouched state of casual oblivion. The someone hadn't seen him. Good.

In a rush, he stepped off the path and into the trees, pressing himself up against the rough bark and hoping to god he wouldn't be spied. Fingers crossed, his eyes squinched shut as he waited for the other to pass.

Harry squinted. He had seen something move, just beyond the periphery of his vision.

He removed his glasses, wiped them and looked again, face drawn in a quizzical frown. As he came closer, he realized it was a person, and he called out, frowning.

"Hey! You, behind the tree! Have you seen our ball?"

Draco flinched and turned his head. He knew that voice.

It was Potter. "Fuck," he murmured, absolutely exasperated.

Harry potter, the boy who lived, was the last person he wanted (or expected, for that matter) to see. He turned his head away and bit his lip, brain whirling wildly. What to do.. What to do.

For an instant, he thought of turning around and saying something, some irrelevant part of his mind thankful that black clothes didn't show blood stains. But just then his eyes fell on the portkey. It was an old tire, lying some 20 yards away. He remembered it.

"Hullo? Miss? ..Have you seen our ball?"

Draco whipped his head around, looking momentarily at Harry, before breaking into a sprint for the portkey.

Harry, confused, took off after him.

It's not that far, he assured himself wildly as he ran. It would be all right as long as Harry didn't see his face. As long as harry didn't see his face, yes.

He could get out of this... closer now... almost there. Draco could hear Harry's slamming footfalls behind him, and wildly he wondered what in bloody hell he was doing. Was harry running... after him ?

Harry was almost close enough to touch the girl by now, and just as he reached to grab the tail end of the blonde stranger's long, black coat the blond took a dive... or did she fall...? and seized hold of the tire.

Harry fell to his knees, out of breath and confused. The blonde was sprawled upon the ground before him, coat askew and half off, legs spread eagle, her strange, heavy boots muddy and black.

It occurred to Harry only as the blond stranger disappeared that the other was firstly, not a girl, and secondly, not muggle.

He stood, breathless, with half a mind to grab the tire and follow the strange blonde, but another sound drew his attention away. It was mrs. weasley, calling him to dinner.  
> <p>


	2. An argument

saturday night

By the time Draco arrived at home, he was in no mood to be spoken to, looked at or touched, and all it had taken was a quick glance at his father's smiling face to piss him off even more.

Draco came into the foyer to find father standing at the top of the stair, arms crossed, smirking. "Have a good night?"

Draco stood gazing up at Lucius in absolute hatred, his eyes glazed.

It came all at once, the rage and disgust, rushing through him painfully.

He was no longer impressed with his father No longer cared to indulge him, or even acknowledge his presence. The suspicion that his father was a monster had been an irrational fear which had plagued Draco nearly all his life, and finally, that nagging hunch had been confirmed.

And Draco knew, standing there, that he was just like Lucius.

It made him feel sick.

Dirty, tired and sore, he climbed the stair, but didn't answer.

He had already decided during the excursion home that he would not be speaking for a very long time. Not in front of his father, at any rate.

His reddened eyes had narrowed vindictively, fists clenching until his already pale flesh stretched absolutely bloodless over the form of his knuckle bones. No, his father was not worth his waste of breath.

"You still have to pack. You know the hogwarts express leaves tomorrow."

Draco glared at the older man as he passed him on the stair, eyes communicating all that needed to be said.

Once Draco had reached the safety of his own rooms, he began to peel his soiled robes away from his skin, wincing.

They were tossed into the fire carelessly, and as they sifted to ash amongst the flames he stood bare before the mirror, looking at himself.

His skin was dirty; raw in some places, stained rusty in others. He was too thin, too pale, too small. Weak looking. He hated himself, standing there. He was different. Changed. He was his father's son, he realized with disgust. It seemed to him that for years and years he had wanted nothing more than to be like his father, and now that he was, he wished desperately that he could be anything but.

Turning away from the mirror, he padded into the bathroom and began to draw himself a bath. He had washed his hair, movements methodical and slow, unthinking as he ducked under and rinsed his pale locks out, more than once having to stop and pick a blood clot out of his silvery strands. His mind was quiet with shock.

For some time he simply sat there, hunched in his great ivory bathtub, hugging his knees to his chest. His back was thin, pale and glistening wet, the curve of his spine and ridges of his shoulder blades defined as he held himself. The warm water around him was still, tinted pink from whatever blood that had washed off his skin.

After a time, and Draco did not know or care how long, his mother finally came to fetch him from the bath, asking him how he felt, was he alright, did he need anything at all Draco darling dear how was your bath? She regarded him gently, as if she were aware of what he'd been through but was trying not to remind him of it.

Draco tried not to be irritated with her. "I think I scrubbed myself too hard in some places," he answered glibly, pulling his plush cotton robe around him tighter as he crossed the room.

"Draco..."

Lucius purred his son's name softly, fingering the thick colourless tangles that hung about draco's elegant neck. Lucius was trying to be persuasive, although the blonde boy couldn't possibly fathom why.

In his mind, his father had already won. He was heir to a grand deception, a great and gilded nothing. Draco blinked and did not respond. His father had wronged him, and for that, he must somehow be punished.

Draco was no stranger when it came to the tools of manipulation; Lucius, as a father, had found out quite early that if little Draco felt that he had somehow been wronged, he would take it upon himself to repay his foe with the same favor.

"Draco...draco... little dragon... what's wrong?"

A fingertip trailed up behind his ear, stroking at his velvety paperwhite flesh. Little dragon... Draco's upper lip twitched, revolted.

He had never liked his father's pet name for him. It occurred to him, almost comically, that he had never really cared much for dragons at all. He recalled, as he sat staring blankly at his marred arm, the time pansy had tried to get away with calling him that.

"Oh... Draco..."  
>"Shh."<br>"Dracodracodraco... deeper."

"...My dragon."

Draco is suddenly disgusted, and he withdraws his two fingers from inside the elastic of pansy's underwear and shoves her viciously off the bed upon which they have been lying curled together. She lands upon the stone floor with a heavy, meaty thud. Draco glares at her, furious. "Don't you EVER call me that, you ditzy cunt!" he spits the words out with violent emphasis. "That's my father's name for me. Not yours or anyone else's!" he pauses in the middle of his lecture, looking at her.

Her eyes are wide. She looks so pretty... so very frightened, with her knees pulled up under her chin like that. Draco feels bad and he sighs. Guiltily, he tacks on a soft "okay?" at the end of his sentence. "Okay, Draco." She consents meekly before standing up and hesitantly climbing back onto the bed.

Draco swallowed.

"Well, say something. Aren't you happy? Isn't this what you wanted?"

Draco didn't look up. What I want...

He had wanted this before he had seen what it was.

"I've given you everything you've wanted. Everything, draco. And this is how you behave. Nothing ever satisfies you, does it? Nothing ever makes you happy. It's never good enough, is it?" Lucius was now pacing restlessly back and forth across the persian carpet that covered the exquisitely old hardwood floors. Draco's eyes shifted away from his arm for a moment to stare at that floor.

"I might as well say that it won't be enough for you until I've died. Someday I will die, Draco. And then you won't have me to take advantage of anymore."

None of this phased him, this lecture that droned in his ears. He had heard all of it before countless times, on countless different occasions. By now it was underwhelming and unimpressive.

He knew the twists and turns in his father's manipulative little lectures like he knew the lines in his father's weary face.

"I suppose you'll be happy then, won't you? when I've died?" Lucius asked bitterly.

The boy exhaled. The older man's words made him feel tired.

"Draco." Lucius' voice was fast growing impatient. He didn't have to look up into his father's eyes to know what was there; burning embers of irritation and ill ease that seethed like black molasses.

"Draco Abraxus!" Lucius warned.

Draco remained utterly still, his slender white arm stretched out before him on the table. It hurt. Under any other circumstances Draco would have been quaking at the sound of his father's voice calling him by both his first and middle name, but as he stared numbly at the mark that had been emblazoned upon his arm, he bitterly realised that his father was no longer a figure to be feared.

"Say something!" Lucius commanded. He stood still in the middle of the room, staring at his son. Draco could feel his father's eyes on him, gaze searching his son for some kind of communication, but there was none. Not even the boy's body language indicated that someone else was in the room with him. If someone, any outside onlooker, were to have spied him sitting there they would have assumed he was alone.

He was utterly and completely shut off.

When he finally spoke, he decided that he would respond to his father, but it would not be the response Lucius was seeking.

"I don't understand your preoccupation with being happy."

Lucius made a disgusted noise and shook his head, eyes closing as two slender fingers pinched the bridge of his nose. "I'm not in the mood, Draco."

"You told me to say something." Draco's voice was toneless, without any real inflection or emotion, and yet it managed to carry a certain smartness to it that Lucius didn't like at all. His father's eyes flashed, unbeknownst to and unseen by the blond boy. Lucius was angry, very much so. Draco could tell. It was in the way his father struggled to maintain some type of calm when he spoke. Draco was pleased and disgusted all at once.

"The dark mark commands respect. Just as I do; but, Oh no, Draco doesn't have to respect his father, now does he? Just as he doesn't have to respect his heritage or his legacy or all that his father has done for him. He's quite above all that." Lucius kept on, continuing his unsuccessful attempts to provoke his son into a verbal argument.

He wanted draco to listen, to react... but Draco was no longer paying attention to his father's uninspired words. He let his gray-granite eyes shift out of focus, overly-eager to lose himself in contemplation.

He could still catch various snatches of his father's lecture droning in his ears, something more about respect.

...respect?  
>Draco thought back to all that he had witnessed over the course of the past twenty-four hours, mind spinning itself in futile circles. He could not comprehend the idea of respecting this... man...<p>

This strange, pathetic, weak-minded man who stood with him in that room, who wore his father's face and spoke with his father's voice, and yet was undeniably, completely not his father.

Respect? never.  
>How was he supposed to respect a man that did not respect himself? Lucius had raised Draco to think highly of his father, to both fear and admire him. In young Draco's eyes his father truly was a dark, romantic man. A man that was powerful, rich, influential... terrifying.<p>

The mistake that draco had made all those years was to assume that because he saw his father this way, that his father was that way, but it simply was not so.

A man that was not his own master was not a man at all.

"We have always been loyal, Master... always..."

Draco watches his father kneel before Lord Voldemort, head bowed. Draco is disgusted, and some irrelevant little part of his brain notes that Lord Voldemort looks sort of disgusted, as well. His father grovels at the dark lord's feet and draco feels sick. His father, Lucius Malfoy, is nothing more than a yipping little lapdog, pet to an irrationally cruel master.

"You were not so very loyal on trial, Lucius."

"Not publicly.." Lucius says, voice wavering and rising above its natural tone. Draco can smell the stink of fear on his father, hear it in his voice as it trembles.

"It sounds as through you are making excuses, Lucius, and true loyalty knows nothing of public and private faces. You have..." the dark lord pauses for a moment, and the other death eaters hold their breaths, waiting. "not. been. loyal."

The dark lord's face is calm... almost serene as Draco watches a pale hand strike across his father's face one... two... three times. Voldemort hits him viciously, as if Lucius were a child.

"Draco. DRACO!"

The sound of his father's voice called him back up out the recesses of his memory, and all at once the side of his face was met with a sharp, violent slap.

The smack of skin on skin echoed in the room which had suddenly become dangerously quiet. The blonde boy looked up at him, eyes wide and empty. Lucius looked livid. Absolutely, murderously angry.

Lucius' mouth moved soundlessly, and at first Draco thought he was going to speak, but he only stormed from the room, cloak billowing behind his tall lean frame as he went. The lights flickered off involuntarily with the slam of the door, and Draco was left in the dark and the quiet, the smarting in his cheek a final, desperate testimony of his father's frustrations.

He did not move, allowing himself to remain so still that he could hear himself breathing, feel his heart pushing blood through his veins. His arm throbbed, constant and steady, with the inconsequential rhythm of his pulse.

All it takes is a weak flick of the dark lord's wrist and they begin to file out of the room with a dark, languid splendor. They're leaving me. again.

The revelation streaks red and bitter across his mind. It all seems so ironic to Draco as he recalls in a vivid flash all the time he had spent romanticising torment, thinking idly that to suffer was to achieve the highest form of beauty. He couldn't have been more wrong. Voldemort sits, deceptively quiet, as they sit side by side before the fire, watching the flames lick the stones of the hearth black.

"You know, I was very intimately involved in your conception, Draco."

When he finally speaks, his voice is a low and whispery hiss, dry like parchment.

"Your mother could not conceive, and so your father came to me seeking.. magical assistance. The rituals were long.. endlessly long, but finally.." Voldemort's scaled, leathery face twisted into the echo of a monstrous smile.

"Born with aid of dragon's blood, bone and heart.. hence your namesake.." As the dark lord speaks, Draco wonders why voldemort is telling him all of this, and notes that his voice has a slow, hypnotic quality that makes him feel relaxed and anxious all at once.

When the dark lord calls him close, he gives into voldemort's seductive voice and Voldemort drives the tip of his wand, searing, into the tender flesh of Draco's arm. The pain itself is blinding, and as the world begins to darken, Draco can feel himself tearing away from the arms and strong hands that hold him still against a chill, soft body..

sunday

The blonde boy sat calmly, staring at the ageless double doors that opened into the parlour. Draco had sat there all night, not sure whether he was actually suffering or merely being dramatic for the sake of all he'd been through.

He was waiting for someone to come in and notice him. He had watched the magnificence of the sunrise, all light and brilliance over the barren scape of the moors, as he sat, slowly, methodically trying to process his thoughts. The sky was painted in a million fiery daybreak hues, the vivid colours seeming to slip and soak into the early morning clouds.

The grandfather clock chimed six o'clock, perpetually tick-tick-ticking away the minutes as he watched the sunlight creep, in elongated bars of warmth and gold, across the floors.

Finally, at seven thirty, the doors swung open and Narcissa looked at him with her pretty eyes and sad, trademark smile.

"The car is ready, love. Shall I ride with you?"

"Yes, Mum. of course." 


	3. Afully green for autumn

[still sunday]

The three fifth years sat together in silence, resting their heads just so upon one another's shoulders as they huddled close between the clutter of trunks and owl cages and carry-on bags that crowded their carriage.

Somberly, Ron and Hermione had settled close to Harry, flashing pensive half felt smiles as their hands sought out his own; guiltily, Harry fell very easily into their safety and warmth. Beside him, Hermione sighed.

Harry let his head loll back against the seat, the nape of his neck against the scratchy maroon velvet that draped all the seats in red-wine splendor.

All at once he both resented and welcomed the comfort of his two best friends, torn between peace and pride. Nestled weary between them, he knew he didn't want to drag them down (even though he did) and he did not want their pity (even though he had it).

Harry hated to think that they should feel sad just because... because he...  
>no. It wasn't their place. And it wasn't right that they should have to share the burden of his shortcomings. He was the one who had made the mistake. It was his fault that Cedric was dead, and no one else's.<p>

his fault...

The boy's stomach churned slightly as his mind swam with guilt and grief and a million other formless, shapeless phantoms that all seemed to collect inside him and make him feel ill.

Turning his head just slightly, he looked towards Ron, at his left, and then to Hermione, on the right. They deserve to be happy, he thought to himself bitterly.

The three were so quiet that they could hear the dull whirring of the gears and wheels beneath the carpeted floor, propelling the train smoothly onward down the track. Outside, beyond the door with its elegant frosted glass window, students could be seen passing back and forth down the hall, oblivious to the quiet sad that Harry felt so keenly.

"Hey harry, did you hear about that fam-"

"..Harry?"

He looked up at the sounding of the unfamiliar voice to see Cho Chang standing hesitantly in the doorway. She was wringing her small hands nervously, her pretty mouth drawn into an apologetic line.

"Right..." she slid into the seat across from him as Ron and Hermione raised their heads, curious eyes searching the Ravenclaw.

"Look Harry I just wanted to say that..." she paused and looked down at her twisting fingers. "That I was sorry about what happened last year.."

Raising her head, she looked at Harry and offered a small smile.

Harry couldn't believe what he was hearing. This was wrong. The rush of sudden nausea hit him like a ton of bricks. This was sick. His stomach flopped in disgust and he stood up suddenly, Ron and Hermione falling away from him as he fled the carriage.

"Harry?" Ron stood up with surprise, still holding Hermione's hand as he watched the compartment door slide closed with an even little 'click'.

"Come back! Where are you go-?" Cho sat back with a heavy sigh and looked at Ron and Hermione.

"Just let him go..." Cho said.

Draco was already on the train by the time he'd found his father's letter.

It had somehow been tucked into the pocket of his cloak, and as he opened the envelope and read the words he felt his forehead and cheeks go hot and cold at once.

My little Dragon,

So terribly sorry to shatter the rose colored glasses Hogwarts provides for you, but you're becoming a man, and it's time you started to act as one. Thus, you have been called. I trust you'll do as instructed, as I believe I've raised you better than to disobey, as you know and have seen full what the consequences are. After your episode I expect nothing less then compliance to amend for your disrespect to me.

You are to study potter, learn him. Mark him well, though you are not to change your own daily life in a way that may be noticed by Dumbledore or his ilk. Learn the boy as well as you are able- understand him, if you must, for we will need such knowledge. And, when the time is right, you will bring him to us.

You are the marked elite among the cattle, and you will be well rewarded.

Your mum sends her love.  
>Father'<p>

When he was finished reading the letter, his eyes flicked up at his two companions momentarily. Beside him, Goyle snored and snorted, but did not wake up. Crabbe stared dully at the window, landscape outside reflected and flashing in his unintelligent eyes.

Draco sat back in his seat and crumpled the letter in his fist. He squeezed at it until it was a small, tight ball and then he stuffed it in his pocket.

"Shite... stay here," He instructed shortly. Crabbe nodded dumbly and turned back to the window, unaware as Draco slipped out of the carriage and out into the hall.

He looked both ways down the corridor and slid the door closed. His hands were shaking and to steady himself, he leaned back against the thin wall of the train. Eyes closed, he tried to convince himself that the letter had been some kind of sick joke, but no matter how hard he wished it were the truth, he just couldn't believe it.

"Hey! watch it there!"  
>"Look out!"<br>"What the bloody-!"

Draco opened his eyes just in time to see Harry storming down the train, shoving through an especially giggly gaggle of first year girls.

Draco couldn't help but notice that Harry looked about as sullen as he himself felt. As Harry bulldozed his way past Draco, he caught a snatch of Harry's scent before he disappeared off down the corridor.

He smelled clean, like soap and fresh air and maybe a little like perspiration. Draco closed his eyes again.

Harry's mind was whirling as he shoved his way down the hallway, elbows and shoulders pushing past anyone in his way, ignoring curious voices that called his name.

It both embarrassed and pained him to think how much he had liked Cho, and in turn, of how much she had liked Cedric. Numbly, he tried to comprehend why she had apologized. Finally, he reached the last car, which was blessedly free from other students.

He stood at the window, his pale pink palms straining against the thick, double plated glass. It seemed to him that no matter how hard he pushed against the window pane he could not get outside. Everything was so alive so fresh. September first and the flowers were still blossoming rainbow pretty beside the train tracks.

A part of him wished, irrationally, that the brilliant shades of summer that lingered in the trees could slip through his hands and fingers like warm, coloured water. The dreamy liquid would cleanse his hands and his soul of the terrible guilt that had seized him with the onset of the upcoming school year.

He watched the magnificence of the world slide past him in a million different shades of florafaunescent glory, casually speeding by as the train wound its way through the English fields and hills like a brilliant red snake making a secret journey through a patch of rich grass.

It was a strange sort of melancholy that seized him as he stood there. Not the usual, that spawned generation after generation of tears, but an alien white that had settled itself inside him.

This was a sadness that could never quite be mended or healed. It was a great and solitary quiet that had nestled itself into the folds of his soul. He knew that just down the hall, resting comfortably in a crowded cabin were two friends that would have gladly listened had he felt the need to speak, to verbally incarnate his sorrows, but the boy felt that truly, he could not find the words.

And as he recalled the weary smiles of those friends, he decided it would not be wise to dump his burdens on those who had enough of their own. Perhaps it was a sense of something ominous, a finality that loomed in the distant mystic north, hanging over the sky like an unending, hateful storm.

He shivered, despite the soft warmth of the twilight sun that filled the world beyond his window.

It had almost been easy to forget over the summer. His friends had been careful to remain saccharine in all their letters, talking of their homework or family birthdays, but never asking how he felt. They perhaps knew that the depths of that question in itself was too great to be fathomed. Truthfully, the boy wasn't sure how he was supposed to feel.

He had spent his summer in the warmth and dark of someone else's playroom, amongst the shadows of his bloated cousin's broken toys. His days were lazy and slow as he lay with his white legs tangled in the cotton sheets that covered his bed, watching the pool of sunlight move across his floor as the hours slipped away forever. He answered letters when he received them, but never wrote any of his own.

At night the boy dreamed of a funeral, and the way a hundred eyes had looked at him when the boy had paid his respects before the coffin. He wondered how it had happened, rational mind replaying the same series of events over and over in his mind as he felt the weight of an entire secret world lowering itself onto his thin shoulders.

The boy raised his framed eyes, wishing once again that he could drain the colours from the world and hold them in his mouth. What would it taste like to have the whole sky going down his throat, or have the emerald sweet of the trees and grass swimming in his belly?

"It's awfully green... isn't it, Potter?"

A voice sounded, southern drawling soft in the quiet of the car. The boy jumped- he hadn't heard the door open, the arrival of someone else had not been announced.

He wondered how long they'd been standing there. He didn't turn around, but in the window he could catch someone's reflection. The boy who had spoken was tall and thin, his black robes hemmed short and hanging around his long, coltish legs in graceful torrents of black fabric.

The boy immediately noticed the other's boots, which were a terrifying confusion of zippers, straps and buckles, gleaming silvery against stitches of black leather and new shiny plastic. His thick colourless hair fell unevenly about his chin, neck and shoulders in a shag, face unseen. Something about him was awfully familiar... but Harry could hardly think where he would recognized the strange, pale person from.

With a turn of the boy's head, the familiar face registered.

Well, Malfoy had certainly grown over the summer.

With a sudden shameful rush of memory, he lowered his hands from the window, Harry's moment of peace interrupted by the presence of his nemesis. He turned, looking over his shoulder at the Slytherin who stood in the doorway.

"Awfully green, for autumn.."

With that, the blond boy was gone in a rustle of silk and velvet, gilded door sliding closed behind him as he went. He passed out of the car like a wisp of lingering smoke, a painful unspoken spell, whispery and sad.

There had been no biting comments or painful jeers this time. The blond boy's bittersweet words rang through the dark-haired boy's brain as if it were already a distant memory, an echo that made him feel more lonely and lightless than he had before, as he stood there in the silence without the comfort or laughter of friends.

Awfully green, for autumn...  
> <p>


	4. An awkward conversation

monday

"After you've added the sinquefoil, you'll need to add the powdered beetle wings. This will prevent your serum from looking like Longbottom's, which, I must say, looks especially wrong today."

Listening to Professor Snape, Draco let a shadow of a smile grace his pale pointed face as he dumped the glistening white powder into the bubbling blue substance in his cauldron.

He was glad to be back at school, there was no denying it. It was a relief to know that his father, along with Voldemort and the occurrences of the previous weekend, were hundreds of miles out of sight and almost out of mind. He had momentarily dismissed the letter, but once he had overcome his initial paranoia about being at school with the dark mark, he had felt fine. Even his arm felt better. No longer numb with pain, the sensation had dulled to a soft, unrelenting ache. Clenching his fist with a frown, Draco tried to dispel the monotonous throb.

Around him, the rest of the Gryffindor/Slytherin double potions class worked in near silence, their murmurs, giggles and whispers echoing off the ageless dark stones of the Slytherin dungeons.

"At this point," Snape began. Draco lifted his head to listen.

"All of your serums ought to be blue. Despite popular belief, the skin that collects over the surface of the distention serum does not have romantic restorative properties alone. It must be gelled and mixed with the root of the sorrow flower, and when done so, can produce the active aphrodisiac ingredient in three of the most powerful poisons known to man. However, one must be careful, because love potions and poisons are often inextricably linked, due to their similarities in property and substance. When deciding to brew a potion that contains the gelled sorrow flower, one will do well not to use too much, for they will poison their lover. I hardly expect any of you worms to grasp the romantic irony of such a concept."

Despite Draco's attempts at concentration, Snape's voice seemed to fade in and out, sometimes sounding utterly clear in his ears and then slowing to an unintelligible, deep throated rumble.

Dizzily, he leaned against the table, knuckles turning white as he clutched the roughly hewn edge of the wooden table for support. He felt too hot, and swallowing, he wiped his damp forehead with the back of a violently trembling hand. A nauseous sensation began to wash over him, coming in warm, slow waves. He felt his gut lurch, and he doubled over, clutching at his stomach as he began to wretch violently.

He vomited loudly into his cauldron, his belly emptying it's contents into the distention serum with a heavy splash. When he was finished, he slumped against the warmth of his cauldron and looked up at the rest of his class with a soft expression of bewilderment upon his face. Foul, ropy strings of something black hung from his mouth and chin, and his eyes were large, colourless, and glazed. Those eyes roved over the faces of his fellow students, gazing at each of them with detached curiosity.

Their expressions were all alike, equal in shock, horror, disgust and perhaps even concern.

As he passed out his eyes met Harry's very briefly, and Draco shivered before he let the darkness seize him. Slipping away from consciousness, he heard Professor Snape say "Well, don't just stand there fools! Get him up!"

Scowling, Severus Snape shoved his way through the ring of students that had gathered around Draco's limp body. He towered above the blond boy, eyes searching his prone form. when he saw what was in the cauldron he covered his mouth and away looked in disgust.

There, bobbing gently in Draco's distention serum (which had turned a nasty shade of orange) was a partially digested half of a ribcage.

A euphony of gasps sounded from the other fifth years, slytherin and gryffindor alike. Severus whirled around to look at them, black robes flowing with the sudden movement. "GET OUT OF HERE! ALL OF YOU! CLASS DISMISSED!"

The news spread like wildfire that afternoon, hot whispers passed from lips to ears, sparking the burning flames of gossip.

"Did you hear?... Passed right out in the middle of potions, they're saying!... Can you believe it? I know!... YES, MALFOY!... me? I wasn't there, I've got herbology after lunch, but... Half a ribcage? SHEESH!... Just floating there, right in the middle of the cauldron!...I saw it! It was terrible!..."

"I don't know..." Harry shook his head.

"I think i'm going to have to agree with Harry. It just doesn't seem right. It isn't normal," Hermione said.

"WHAT are you guys talking about? Malfoy puked and passed out! It was bloody BRILLIANT!"

"Half a ribcage? Ron.." Harry looked at his best friend, features drawn in a disbelieving frown.

"Okay. So yeah, that's a little weird. but...maybe someone cursed him or something," He suggested with a shrug. Ron could vividly recall the time he had been cursed accidentially and consequently spent the rest of his afternoon belching slugs.

"I don't think so," Hermione said, setting down her quill and folding her hands atop her parchment. "I've never read anything that mentions..." A look of disgust crossed her face and she shuddered, "puking up ribcages."

"Whatever, I don't care. It looked painful, and that's good enough for me," Ron said.  
>"Yeah, but..." Harry paused, and for a long moment he stared out the window at the evening sky. It was cloudy.<p>

"What you have to wonder is ... who's ribcage was it?"

Nobody said anything for a few minutes, each of them allowing the gruesome implications of Harry's question to sink in.

"I don't guess it really matters," Ron finally concluded, and went back to reading his book.

"I still think it's sort of funny..." Harry was no longer paying attention to his friends, and instead, was staring thoughtfully out the window once again. Something was nagging at him, gnawing irritatingly along the fringe of his consciousness, but what? Something wasn't right. He could feel it. It all seemed far too peculiar to be counted as mere coincidence. Harry remembered the way he had felt when malfoy spoke to him on the train, that untouchable sense of sadness that was nothing and everything all at once, as if it were in the air itself.

What Malfoy had said had spooked him, and now this. No...something was up. Very suddenly, Harry decided that he wanted to know what.

He stood up. Ron and Hermione looked up at him curiously. "I'm going to go see Malfoy.. I'll be back."

When draco awoke, he found himself in the sterile white of the infirmary.

Beside him, Madam Pomfrey was busying herself by quietly mixing a bottle of WooZEaze with a bottle of Wretch-No-More. she had reasoned that whatever needed to be purged had already been purged, but you never really could tell, so, she was mixing the concoction anyway, just in case.

She turned on her heel and smiled at him when she saw he was awake. "Ah, Mr. Malfoy, how're you feeling?" He looked to check and make sure his arm was covered.

"Better, I hope. From what I've heard, you had quite an episode today, but it's all right dear, you just rest easy."

He swallowed and sat up with a groan. "What time is it?" he asked, lifting his hands to his head, which ached dreadfully.

"Headache?" she asked, stooping down and rustling through one of her cupboards. She produced a small blue vial stopped with a cotton swab. "Take one of these, and drink this." She handed him a small, white pill, which he assumed was for his headache, and a cup full of churning pink liquid. He took the pill dry and brought the cup to his mouth, smelling the liquid with a certain amount of distrust.

One whiff and he shook his head, setting the cup down. It made his stomach clench. "There's no way!" he exclaimed, shaking his head. "I am not drinking that. I refuse."  
>she shrugged and Draco looked at her, expectantly.<p>

Madam Pomfrey looked back at him, blankly.

"The time? What time is it?" he asked urgently again, shooting a suspicious, sideways glance at the cup. He didn't know what the hell sort of stuff that was, but if she expected him to down that she was mad.

"Don't be pushy with me! it's six fifteen, you've been out for hours. I thought you might've ended up sleeping the whole evening through, which would've been most unusual. I've had to refuse all your visitors. Miss Parkinson has been up to see about you four different times already."

Madam Pomfrey moved about the room as she chattered, and was standing on the other side of a white cloth divider that separated his bed from the others when he heard her voice sound once again. "Ah, and here's another of your visitors now! Yes, yes, you can come in, but not too long, Potter...Mr. Malfoy needs his rest!"

Draco made a face, as if he had tasted something unsavory and sour.

Why was potter here to visit him? His anxious heart skipped a beat at the idea that perhaps Harry was there to confront him about their run-in in the forrest, or worse yet, what if Harry knew about...

Madam Pomfrey disappeared into the recesses of her office, the slam of the door signaled that she was no longer present.

Harry crossed the room, and stepped beyond the white cotton wall of the divider.

Draco was sitting up in bed, back rigid, arms crossed defensively across his chest. Harry stood, and they looked at one another silently for some time, before Draco finally spoke.

"So the famous Potter has decided to pay me a visit. I'm so very flattered. I didn't know you thought of other people."

Harry glowered. "I didn't come here to fight, Malfoy."

"Right. That's fascinating. Now leave, because if I've got to look at your wretched face a second more I fear I might be sick again. I'm still not well, you know, and you being here doesn't make me feel at all better."

Harry opened his mouth to speak, and then stopped. He hadn't actually expected malfoy to be agreeable, had he? No, and so, momentarily forgetting his actual reason for being there, he said hotly, "Why do you have to be such a wank, malfoy?" annunciating the letters and consonants so to make his last name sound foul and nasal.

Draco, with the quickness, shot back "Why do you fancy yourself to be so much better than everyone else, Potter?"

Harry blinked his eyes, unable to accept what he was hearing. "What?"

"You heard me, Potter. I asked you why you think you're so much greater than everyone else. Just because you've got some bloody ugly scar slashed across your forehead. I swear, it's disgusting. Make up your bloody mind! You can't seem to decide which persona you're better at milking; the innocent, victimized little orphan or the glorious 'boy who lived.'"

Harry was so angry that he was almost laughing. Malfoy didn't know what he was talking about. How could he? Harry's hands, which hung at his sides, tightened into bloodless fists, balls of rage that he wanted desprately to pound into Draco's face, and he clenched his teeth, green eyes flashing.

"...You...You think I asked for all this? I you think I actually WANTED THIS? I DON'T, okay! I didn't want my parents to DIE just because some insane dark wizard got a wild hair up his arse! I didn't ask for this BLOODY UGLY SCAR! I didn't ASK for ANY of it! Everyone's expecting me to save the whole bloody wizarding WORLD when I couldn't even save ONE wizard! I don't think I'm SPECIAL. I'm NOTHING!"

Before Harry knew what he was saying he had already finished. The words seemed already formed, and yet to come from nowhere. It had felt so good to say them.

Dimly, he realized that he had just revealed more about himself to Malfoy than maybe he had ever revealed to Ron or Hermione put together.

Embarrassed, angry and upset, he turned to go.

Draco sat there, absolutely stunned. His mind raced with a million responses; a multitude of icy comebacks, quick impassive quips and cruel taunts all lingering on his tongue, and yet he found he couldn't say any of them. He opened his mouth, stopped, and started over.

"Potter," his own voice sounded remorseful. Almost apologetic, and maybe a little sad.

Exasperated, harry stopped. "What!" he asked, irritated.

"Why did you come?"

Harry's hand fell away from the doorknob and he turned to look at the blond boy. "I only came to ask what you meant on the train. Why you.." he paused. The words that, only minutes ago, proved to be so powerful now seemed to fail him completely. "How did you...?"

"Know?"

Harry sighed a little. "Yeah."

Draco cocked his head to the side, his pale face smooth and thoughtful as he collected his thoughts. "You looked sad, Potter...like you wanted out, somehow. It's always very hard to escape something, especially when what you want to escape is yourself." Draco sighed and looked down at his hands.

Harry watched him, green eyes narrowing in thought. It seemed that whatever previous facade the Slytherin boy usually worked so hard at keeping up had slipped away for just a minute, and Harry saw him as someone else, someone entirely different all together. It made him feel uncomfortable.

He cleared his throat. "But..."

"Don't you know, Potter?" Draco interrupted, looking up and catching Harry's eyes. Draco spoke softly, his voice no longer sounding in the haughty, bored drawl he so often used, "Quiet desperation is the english way."

As Harry made his way down the silent halls, he tried to process in his mind what had transpired between himself and the Slytherin.

After all of that, he hadn't asked Malfoy why he had lurched up a ribcage, or who's it was, but something told him that even if he had asked, Draco wouldn't have told him.

He decided, without feeling secretive, that he wouldn't tell Ron and Hermione about their peculiar conversation, or about the way Malfoy's gaze had searched him up and down with more than just petty hatred swirling in his eyes.


	5. Bad dreams

wednesday morning

Draco is dreaming.

The yellow wallpaper is sallow and soiled with large brown stains that he thinks look like piss.

It is torn away in some places, and on nights when he can't sleep he peels the wretched yellow paper away from the walls like skin before he shoves his fists into the soft, dingy plaster that crumbles as his knuckles bash dents into it's surface.

Above him, dangling from a cracked ceiling hang the remains of a chandelier, its glittering faux diamonds pocketed and sold long ago by some poor soul who was more than likely dead by the time he had found the room.

He lies on his mattress, which is gray and stained and carries a distinct smell of seed and sweat, and listens to the building decay around him, lapsing forever deeper into the throes of neglect and disrepair.

The metal bed frame that supports his mattress has long since flaked away most of it's white paint, and it screams in protest when he shifts his slight frame upon it.

He balls his grubby hands into fists and presses them against his eyelids until he finally dreams, and his mind assaults him with visions that are uneasy and tinted green, filling his head with looming faces that sway and rock manically, tauntingly before him.

Often times he wakes up anxious and alone, and he wanders the long forgotten corridors of the building in a restless daze, admiring it's rotting, outdated victorian opulence with swirling dark eyes.

Sometimes he will amuse himself by pulling wings from the backs of flies, or cutting off the heads of rats that are too stupid to know not let themselves get caught. He crushes their tiny skulls with his big angry boots, stomping up and down upon them untill he has temporarily sated his need for petty violence.

Everything is surreal; the silence chilling. The knowledge that he is alone, lost in such a horrible, empty place; trapped forever with... Things feels wrong, ill, nightmarish.

It is so very subtle, this feeling, untraceable and without definition, and yet it is always there. The colours of his world are too sour, the air too warm, too stagnant. Shadows seethe and dance out of the corners of his eyes, empty air whispers it's seductions around him. Sometimes he wishes those whispers were ghosts, for even that is better than being completely by himself.

His heels dig into the grimy black wood of the floors as he meanders, desperate to escape what has become of him, what his life and world has melted into.

In his wanderings, he comes to a great staircase. Its steps are rotted out and full of holes, beconing, even daring him to step. He never climbs it.

He simply stands below and gazes upwards, unblinking, at the top.

Bolted there is a great metal circle, and tied against it's design like an iron garden, is a body that has been almost completely cleaned of it's meat. Around the legs and feet, which had not been hacked away, bits of gristle still cling to the elegantly curving bones.

Back in his tiny bedroom with it's piss flower wallpaper, he sits on the edge of his bed, hands folded in his lap. Across from him, a high, barred window stretches itself up the length of the wall, most of it's dirty frosted panes broken.

The sky is a dull, unmoving gray and the slowly moldering world outside drips with the aftermath of a sudden downpour.

He watches in blank, unfeeling apathy as the sky darkens with the onset of night, and when all the light vanishes from his room, (shadows at first slipping into the corners, and then up the walls until they seize over everything like a sickness), he lets himself lie back to wait for morning's coming.

Draco awoke that morning to find his pillow wet with tears.

The fact that he had been crying in his sleep upset him more than the actual dream, and as he slipped from the warmth and comfort of his bed, bare feet padding on the chill stone floor, he found that he felt out of place, somehow removed.

He had always felt separate from the other students in his year, not so secretly regarding them as dull, unsophisticated, and...well, bloody stupid.

This was different, though.

The day previous, as he had moved through the halls with the other students, he felt as though the mark upon his arm had pulled him across some invisible line, and he was separate from them. Ghosted. Marked among the cattle. It was as if the other students were no longer to be thought of as peers at all.

He entered the great hall that morning only to be met with quiet whispers and sidelong glances, a few students from another year even venturing to ask if he was all right. Embarrassed, he had decided not to grant them an answer, and he seated himself, sullenly, between Crabbe and Goyle.

Pansy, who was sitting across the table, had already begun her incessant chatter. "Draco? Are you all right? I can't begin tell you how upset I was!" he helped himself to a sausage and smiled at her, not in the mood to flatter himself with her attention. "Cake, draco? It appeared this morning by mistake, and I grabbed it for you." She held out the plate, upon which the thick, chocolaty delicious slice was resting.

"Yes, actually, that does look good," he raised a fork to the slice, stabbing off a piece and savoring it in his mouth for a moment before he took it.

"Thanks, love," he said. At least she was useful, he thought dully, because goodness knows she isn't smart. She beamed at him and he ignored her.

Draco had made a terrible mistake with Pansy the previous summer, mistake being that he had opened up to her. Since then, and he supposed she had done it to please him, she seemed to have suddenly become a lot creepier, constantly pretending to understand all that he had told her, all those secrets he had whispered into her ears on hot summer nights when their skin stuck together and their hair tangled upon the pillows.

In retrospect he realized those confessions had been squandered upon her, wasted. And now, because she knew them, they were cheapened.

"Milk, Draco?"  
>"Yes, thank you."<p>

Severus Snape knew, he had known that Monday afternoon, and with every passing day, he grew more and more troubled by his knowledge.

He could still remember the sickness all too well, himself. The hot, feverish sensation that seized him before he would begin to wretch up the remains of his muggle 'enemies'. Such was the lifestyle of a death eater.

Even thinking about it then made him feel ill.

Sitting at the end of the staff table, he watched Draco with his dark eyes narrowed, glittering like chips of obsidian, strangely alight with a mixture of thoughtfulness and worry.

So draco had finally been marked. Severus had actually begun to wonder when it was going to happen, and so it had. Having the boy in his house, under his care for five years and running, this was not the first time severus had felt concern for him.

It had first become apparent to Severus when Draco was in his second year. Draco's excitement concerning the opening of the chamber of secrets was such that it distracted not only Draco, but the other slytherin students as well.

He had always been such a morbid boy, focusing on things that were dark in nature and revering them feverishly, adoring the noir with a certain childlike wonder, a naivety that only the most inexperienced of wizards could possess. He was just a child.

Hesitantly, he brought it up to Dumbledore, who listened with a grave expression sketched across his ancient, wintery features.

Sitting there in the headmaster's warmly lit study, with it's soft plush chairs and cheerily crackling fire, it was easy to feel removed from the possibility of danger. Severus felt almost silly as he told the headmaster of his suspicions.

"So what do you propose we do?" the old man had asked, combing his gnarled fingers through the snowy length of his beard. Severus drained the tea from his cup and sat back, nearly scowling.

"I think it best, Severus," Dumbledore began to speak slowly, stringing his words together thoughtfully, "If you were to speak to the boy, I can't imagine he's been getting on very well since he's received the mark. Your understanding of his situation would probably be a great comfort to him."

Dumbledore sat forward and poured the potions master another cup of tea, adding two lumps sugar and stirring it in an almost fatherly manner.

Severus took the cup and sipped at it, but didn't answer. 


	6. Potions Again

friday afternoon

Snape wasn't the only one to have his suspicions, or to notice something peculiar afloat in the autumn air.

Ron, too, was distracted that friday afternoon. However, he was preoccupied with something entirely different altogether. A heavy feeling had settled itself in the pit of his stomach, and as it seemed to always go with worry, the same thoughts ran over and over in his mind, tumbling together like stones. They would turn forever, churning and shifting until they had smoothed themselves away into nothing but sand. There was a stone for Hermione, a stone for his mother and father and all the rest of the Weasley pack, a stone for Hagrid and a stone for Harry...maybe even two stones for Harry.

Harry hadn't been himself, but of course that was to be expected. Nobody had, really, with You-Know-Who's return.

It was if they were all living out their lives in an uneasy anticipation, simply waiting for him to make the first move, to strike his terrible, dark fist down upon their world.

It had affected the entire student body. Students in the hall were quiet, their heads downcast, and eyes full of shadows. People hardly smiled anymore, and almost never laughed. Colors, even, seemed to lack their usual cheer; they were duller, somehow.

But none of it troubled him as much as it did to see Harry sitting next to him, looking gaunter than usual, a little paler...and maybe just a little bit less like the familiar boy who lived.

Beside him, Harry looked around the class, surveying the scene with his eyes as he carefully shredded the leathery, slick skin from a boomslang.

Ron was hyper aware of Harry's gaze, dancing over the backs of Neville and Hermione's heads, over Pansy and Blaise, and then finally to Malfoy.

That was another thing troubling Ron, harry hadn't told them what had happened when he had gone to see malfoy in the infirmary. He had climbed in through the portrait hole, (but not without falling over first), and then seated himself heavily in one of the infamously squashy armchairs that littered the Gryffindor common room, folding his hands in his lap and simply saying "I don't want to talk about it." Hermione, who hadn't thought anything of it, had probably already forgotten, but he hadn't.

Ron watched as Malfoy flicked his eyes in Harry's direction and then, startled to find Harry already looking at him, turned away quickly.

Draco, across the room, was blushing; embarrassed by the unexpected shock of meeting Harry's eyes directly. Since their somewhat awkward conversation in the infirmary, Draco had been avoiding Harry like the plague, not even bothering with his usual superfluous quips and comments.

He felt he had embarrassed himself in front of Harry, and had made himself vulnerable in front of him. With a sigh, draco returned his attention to the contents of his cauldron.

In an effort to forget last week, the potions master had moved them on to disteril juices. This week everyone worked in a gingerly sort of silence, shooting cautious glances in Draco's direction, with the events of the previous lesson still fresh in their minds and wondering: was he going to do it again?

At Snape's instruction, Draco poured a sandy yellow powder into his cauldron and pondered idly why on earth the disteril was considered to be a juice. This wretched stuff was thick, and getting thicker.

"What the bloody hell? how am I supposed to stir this?" he complained, frowning. His arms ached, and his eyes watered at the sour fumes that coiled up steamily from the surface of the juice.

Draco's eyes flicked towards the potions master, and when he was sure the professor wasn't looking, he stepped aside and made goyle do it.

Ron looked away from Draco in disgust, just in time to catch Neville squeal like a girl and back away from his cauldron. All at once there was a great boom and a large, thick puff of rich blue smoke filled the room. Draco too had caught sight of it, and was now fighting back an attack of vindictive snickers.

Snape, through the smoke, rolled his eyes. Hermione was moving towards the explosion, coughing and waving her arms over the caldron in a piteous attempt to clear the smoke while Neville stood back, wringing his hands.

"Don't help him, Granger." Snape shoved himself up from his seat and crossed the room, emerging from the smoke like a tall, black pillar of irritation. Glowering, he looked at Neville. "Fifty points from Gryffindor, Longbottom, you were only supposed to add three porcupine quills."

Neville cowered and lowered his head as the rest of the Gryffindor students made quiet noises of protest, whispering hissily into one another's ears. Snape towered over Neville, features sour and expectant, almost bored. Behind him, some of the Slytherin students snickered. Through the clearing smoke, Snape looked across the room and narrowed his eyes.

Draco was standing with Blaise Zabini, trying desperately to suppress a fit of laughter that had suddenly seized him, leaving Goyle to stir his potion.

"Mister Malfoy," Snape said contemptuously from across the room, "While I do applaud your thoughtfulness in giving Mister Goyle an opportunity to practice his stirring skills, you will escort yourself to my office this afternoon to prove to me that you yourself can make this potion."

Draco looked as though he wanted to protest, but instead he just huffed and nodded, much to Ron's delight.

Good, Ron thought, He deserves to spend a hundred afternoons with snape.


	7. Peace Offering

saturday morning

When Draco woke that morning, he felt he'd reached the breaking point.

The mark upon his arm burned like hell fire, skin stinging with the now familiar sensation of pain. His bones ached, and his head throbbed.

Recollections of all that had happened swirled unending through his brain, as he relived time and time again the painful straining that filled his lungs as he had run through the woods, the mania he had felt on the train, that mad carelessness from lack of sleep that was so thick, so tangible and rapturous, that it was almost violent. Snape's terrible gaunt face rising up from the shadows all accusing eyes and hateful mouth. And Harry...

He couldn't move, he could hardly even breathe, visions so strange they seemed to assault him, making him restless and twitchy in his own bed.

It was because of this peculiar dementia that had seized him that it was Pansy that had brought him the package that morning, creeping into the boy's sixth year dorm and dropping the small parcel atop his blanket.

"You've gotten a parcel, Draco," she said. "Wake up, Greg and Vin are already up. So is Blaise. It's nearly noon."

He opened his eyes and looked at her. "Who from?"

"Your father."

Reluctantly he sat up and regarded the small box with it's creamy parchment wrappings and it's twine while Pansy lingered at the edge of his bed.

"What is it?" she asked, as if she were hoping that he might decide to tell her.

"I don't know, you twit, I haven't opened it yet," draco answered, irritated. He looked up at Pansy and blinked, waiting for her to go on ahead and say something else unimaginably stupid, but all she did was shrink back and declare that she was going to find Millicent.

when he opened the package and tipped the box upside down to shake out the contents, at least a dozen newspaper clippings and a pack of cigarettes fell to rest upon his blankets. He picked up the pack and held it for a minute. This was the peace offering, and he knew it.

"AND STOP STEALING MY BLOODY FAGS!" Lucius cries, exasperated and disgusted all at once. He throws the empty pack across the room at Draco, and the small box comes to rest at his booted feet. Draco looks at the slowly burning fag that he holds between two fingers and blinks. He doesn't want it anymore. He looks at lucius.

It was father's fault.

"If you'd give me my own I wouldn't have to steal them," Draco says.

So this was supposed to make everything okay. A pack of fags and it was all worked out. Right. Whatever.

Draco snorted. His lip was twitching again, sneering. He chucked the pack across the room, disgusted.

with a sigh, he looked down at the newspaper clippings. They had been carefully removed from all sorts of wizarding newspapers and magazines and sent to him without a letter.

He plucked one of the articles up and turned the glossy paper over in his hands. It was from Witch Weekly, and it said:

MUGGLE CORPSES SUSPENDED OVER KNOCKTURN ALLEY, MINISTRY DECLINES TO COMMENT.

Friday, Mr. and Mrs. Edmund Airboat reported two muggle corpses hovering high above Knockturn Alley, a neighboring division of Diagon Alley, wizarding London, where the Airboats make their home.  
>"I was absolutely appalled!" says Mrs. Airboat. "Just floating about like that! If someone hadn't have found them, who knows where they might've drifted off too!"<p>

"The seriousness of this incident has not been overlooked. Here at the ministry we are fully aware of the implications behind these murders, and we are hard pressed that we take the proper measures and steps to see that this type of thing doesn't happen again," states an anonymous ministry official. When asked if the muggle corpses were believed to be linked with a recent rash of Death Eater attacks, comments and statements were withheld...

Collecting the papers in a rush he noticed the dates were all dangerously recent. another article, which looked to have been taken from the daily prophet said:

DEATH EATERS SEEN MARCHING THE STREETS OPENLY, TERROR ENSUES IN DIAGON ALLEY

Last tuesday, the peaceful haven that once was Diagon Alley turned into a virtual horror show of carnage. The magical community was absolutely horrified to find the streets flooded with malicious death eaters. Ministry officials were soon collecting statements and trying their best to prevent riots as the masked culprits set fire to vender's carts and shouted the return of You-Know-Who..

His eyes burned with headlines that seemed to scream up at him in their bold, unrelenting print.

HALFBLOOD WOMAN RAPED IN LONDON; CULPRIT STILL AT LARGE. CORPSE FOUND IN DUMPSTER; MINISTRY SUSPECTS DEATH EATER INVOLVEMENT. MUGGGLE FAMILY OF THREE MURDERED IN THEIR OWN HOME-

Draco's eyes faltered and he looked away from the paper. In an instant he was out of bed, throwing on his robes. He had to go, had to move, had to think away from the oppressive familiarity of the Slytherin dungeons...

"Ho, Ron! Harry!" Hermione raised a hand as she called to them. The boys stopped and turned, waiting for her to catch up.

"Where've you been all morning?" Ron asked.

Hermione's hair was frazzled, a few wispy strands having escaped the sensible bun she wore at the back of her neck, and they were billowing all about her head, frizzled like a halo. "I was at the library," she answered, tucking a stray piece of parchment back into her bag.

Harry smiled. "Like always," he said mischievously, and Hermione thwapped him on the arm.

"Right. Anyway, I was at the library, and Ernie, you know, from Hufflepuff? He said his Mum wrote him to tell him that his father's leaving the ministry because he doesn't feel safe. He said his mum said in her letter that things were getting absolutely mad."

"...What?" Ron asked, brows drawing tight in confusion.

"The ministry should be safe, shouldn't it?" Harry wondered aloud.

Hermione shot Ron an 'oh don't be daft' look, and slowly, it dawned on him. "Oh."  
>"You know we're very sheltered here at school," she said, as if she were an authority on such matters.<p>

Ron nodded.  
>"Don't you think if something really serious were going on, that we'd be alerted?" Harry asked. "Dumbledore wouldn't not tell us if something were happening..."<p>

As he sat on the step below Crabbe and Goyle, squinting, Draco made the irrelevant decision that he hated sunshine. He was tired of it. When the sun shines everyone feels obligated to smile.

He was ready for autumn, with it's chill weather, it's golden dying leaves, and most of all, it's rain..

The warm Hogwarts grounds were dotted with students who had opted to study outside, taking advantage of the light and heat while they still had it. For a minute Draco resented them, and was almost envious of them and their oblivion.

It wasn't fair. he took out the pack of fags and lit one.

He'd already smoked too many that morning, (half the pack), as he had paced and prowled the saturday morning halls, scowling. He thought of it all with an overwhelmed sort of detachment and one question seemed to constantly eat at him, always there and ever present in his mind:

What am i going to do? What am i going to do?

Draco clutched the clippings in his hand until his palm grew sticky with nervous sweat, and even then he still held them tightly. He hadn't even read them all, but something told him that he didn't need to. His mouth tasted sour, and the cheery light made his eyes hurt.

"This sucks."

Harry, Ron and Hermione were making their way down the corridor and towards a pair of great wooden double doors that lead out onto the grounds, strolling along and talking in a casual, saturday sort of way. Ron shoved through the heavy double doors, his face thoughtful as they stepped out into the bright autumn sunshine. "They've got everything under control. I'm sure of it. I would've heard if-"

"I wouldn't be so sure, Weasley." Harry and Hermione turned.

"You must actually think you're safe here," Draco laughed, bitterly. "They're not telling any of us what's actually going on out there."

Ron whipped around and glared as his eyes followed the voice.

Draco was sitting on the great stone steps between the mysteriously silent Crabbe and Goyle, a long white fag slowly burning, smoking itself to death between his two fingers.

Ron's gingery brows furrowed, his dislike of the Slytherin boy warring against his curiosity.

"Oh, what? Don't believe me?" Draco pulled from his pocket a series of newspaper clippings and handed them to Ron. "See for yourself. Go on."

Ron looked the clippings over and blanched. Hermione took them from his hands, leafed through the clippings and finally, with a gasp, passed them on to Harry.

Harry looked down at the clippings in his hands. He read them warily, and when he reached the last one, his stomach was heavy, churning.

"Where did you get these, Malfoy?" Hermione asked. She was clutching Ron's arm.

All of a sudden Harry spoke. His voice was soft sounding, and betrayed.

"...Why didn't Dumbledore tell us?"

He sounded so hurt, somehow. Ron suddenly felt very, very sick. Both Ron and Draco's eyes flicked towards Harry, and both of their gazes lingered there for a time, as if they were studying him, contemplating him for just a moment.

"Let's go," Hermione said quietly, and took the papers from Harry's hands, handing them back to Malfoy. She seemed hushed, and Ron.. Well, Ron, too had been silenced by the horrific bits of news. Hermione, pulling at Ron's arm, began to lead him away.

Harry followed slowly behind and then stopped. He was still holding one of the clippings in his hands. It's newsprint was smudged, the paper a little damp.

"I hope you're happy, Malfoy," he said darkly, turning to look over his shoulder at Draco as he walked away.

It was that afternoon, sometime after their encounter with Malfoy, that Harry began to piece things together bit by bit. Frowning, he read the article once again, just for good measure. Something about it irked him; it wasn't right.

MUGGLE FAMILY OF THREE MURDERED IN THEIR OWN HOME

Saturday-

Muggle authorities arrived at the Willard residence, three miles outside Ottery St. Catchpole, to find Marjori and Wilson Willard, along with their four year old son Max, dead. Fnformants state that the authorities were contacted when a neighboring resident, Mrs. Penelople Pendle, observed that the Willard's car was still in the drive. This struck her as peculiar, as the family, according to Mrs. Pendle, had been planning a camping trip and had intended to leave early that morning.

Police, upon entering the crime scene, were greeted with a terrible shock.

"The inside of that cottage is absolutely horrendous. It must've taken at least twenty men to make a mess of that size...guts all over the walls. We think we're dealing with some kind of cult.. Whoever did this is very, very sick," Says Andrew Melonworth, a local sheriff.

Authorities have no leads, however, due to startling lack of evidence. The only piece of evidence left behind were tracks made in the mud outside the Willard home that lead to a nearby stream. "Size 12, Men's...these prints will help us indefinitely."

Residents of Catchpole are stunned and frightened, and pray that this terrible injustice will be mended. Services and memorials will be held Monday and Tuesday at Bundy cathedral, Ottery St. Catchpole.

Harry set the piece of paper down and stared at his hands. Boot prints...? He closed his eyes, confused, and tried to recall...

..Harry was almost close enough to touch the girl by now, and just as he reached to grab the tail end of the blonde stranger's long, black coat the blond took a dive...or did she fall...and seized hold of the tire. Harry fell to his knees, out of breath and confused. The blonde was sprawled upon the ground before him, coat askew and half off, legs spread eagle, her strange, heavy boots muddy and black...

His eyes opened again and he looked at Hermione who sat beside him, as if the vision of her would bring him back to earth somehow, reconnect him.

Boots...

The boy immediately noticed the other's boots, which were a terrifying confusion of zippers, straps and buckles, gleaming silver against stitches of black leather and new shiny plastic.

Harry looked at the paper again. Size 12, Men's. Finally, it hit him.

"...Malfoy."

Hermione looked up at Harry. "hmm?"

"Nothing." 


	8. The Announcement

saturday evening

So Malfoy had been there.

The truth still shocked him, but he wasn't sure why. It wasn't like Malfoy was an especially good person, it wasn't like they were even friends.

This was something Harry should have expected from someone like him.

What had happened on the train and in the infirmary didn't change who Draco was, did it? Just because he had been there didn't mean he'd...participated.

The footsteps were leading away from the scene, and when Harry saw him, he'd been running. Harry could remember the quidditch cup world. Malfoy hadn't been out there with his awful, Death Eater father. He had been in the woods, away from the chaos.

No, Malfoy wasn't a death eater. He couldn't be.

But even with all his reasoning, Harry still felt unsettled. Maybe it was the fact that this time, Harry knew he couldn't confide in Hermione and Ron as he was used to doing. If he told them, he would have to tell them about the argument and about what he had seen in Malfoy...what he had felt. Some part of him, some small, strange, irritating part, wanted to keep that secret. The only person really left to tell was Dumbledore...

"Oi, Harry," He looked up to see ron standing in the doorway. "It's dinner, C'mon, let's go."

Ron smiled and when he stood he could see Hermione lingering at the bottom of the staircase far below. She was usually very proper about the 'no girls in the boy's dormitory' rule. In fact, thinking back, the only time Harry had ever seen her in their dorm at all was on Christmas. At least some things never change.

Draco sat down between Crabbe and Goyle, irritated. He didn't have time for food and he wasn't hungry. Crossing his arms over his chest he yawned an exaggerated yawn and then sighed.

Sod Dumbledore and his god damned announcement. His arm hurt, and to top it off, he had lost one of his clippings. The most important one, to be precise. As the other students seated themselves at their tables, slowly draining into the great hall from all corners of the castle, his stomach grumbled. Well...maybe he was a little hungry.

"Good evening, everyone," Dumbledore's ancient voice rang out across the hall and all at once, the student body raised it's collective head to listen.

"I will make this as brief as I possibly can, as I can see you all look very hungry.  
>As some of you may already know, and you must forgive my reluctance to tell you, sometimes it is very hard to recognize danger when it is far removed, here in the haven that is Hogwarts."<p>

The old man motioned with his arms to his surroundings and colleagues.  
>"You are all completely safe, and my confidence in this fact has yet to waver. However, in times like these it is easy for us to become disconnected from the rest of the wizarding world and that is very dangerous, indeed." Another pause.<p>

"Voldemort's return is upon us."

The great hall was at once alive with whispers, gasps and whimpers. Dumbledore raised his ancient arms in a gesture of silence. It was as if hearing Dumbledore say it, confirming it, made it all the more real.

"In times such as these, I feel it is best that we be with the ones we love and treasure most. That is why I have arranged for an early departure instead of returning to your homes and families in december, I have decided that winter break will begin october first. This option will be made available to anyone who choses it."

Another wave of whispers.

"Write to your familles, this information has already been sent to your parents, and they are awaiting your words of confirmation. You will need to sign up by this Wednesday, as October first is this upcoming friday. The sheets have been hung on the second floor by the lavatories." He looked around and was met with silence.

"I believe that is everything." He said, and seated himself again.

Draco looked around the great hall at all the grave faces and eyes full of shadows. He felt sick.

After that, everyone began to talk at once, students at each table launching into a garbled, verbal frenzy. A thousand conversations lingered in the air, but none of them belonged to Harry.  
>Ron was leaning across the table, arguing with Fred and George about going home.<p>

Ron wanted to leave and the twins were adamant in making it known that they would not be leaving come October first; no way, no how.

Hermione picked at her food and listened to neville as he bit at his nails and mumbled that his gran would be happy to see him.

"You're really going, Ron?" Harry asked when Ron sat back down. He was red in the face with anger and he shot daggers with his eyes towards Fred and George.

Ron nodded. "Of course I'm going. If dumbledore's giving me an opportunity to miss divination, I'm full well going to take it! I'll write my mum tomorrow and ask her if you can come too."

Harry smiled a little. He honestly felt better about staying at school, but he didn't say anything.

"What about you?" ron asked, looking towards Hermione.

She looked thoughtful. "I really ought to stay," she said, tucking a stray frizz behind her ear. "I can't miss any of my classes."

Harry looked across the hall towards the Slytherin table. Draco looked paler than usual, and instead of his usual loud dinner time antics (which generally consisted of crude Hufflepuff jokes and dramatic impressions of Harry's 'lameness'), he was sitting quietly, subdued. Would he be going home? Harry wondered. Why did he care so much anyway?

That evening after dinner, as Harry made his way to Dumlbedore's office, he passed the second floor landing. There was a huge, clotted mass of bodies, students of every year waiting impatiently to add their names to the list. Nails were bitten, strands of hair anxiously tugged or sucked on. People chewed their bottom lips raw and scribbled their names on the paper, all sighing with relief after their signatures had been added; t's crossed and i's dotted.

Ron's name was already on that list, and by monday, Harry hoped that his name would be, too.

"I feel loads better..."  
>"You're stepping on my foot! Get off, you lump!"<br>"I hope mum won't mind too much.."  
>"I can't wait to see Andrew and Zackerus!"<p>

In all the voices, one stood out. "Just what do you two think your doing?" Harry turned to see Draco standing on the outer edges of the crowd. Crabbe and Goyle were shoving their ways out of the writhing mass of students. When they saw Draco they looked away guiltily.

"You traitorous GIRLS! I can't believe you! The nerve! You're leaving? You can't leave!" Draco railed, his arms waving around in exaggeration. Goyle pulled Draco aside roughly and whispered something into Draco's ear. Draco became very pale and appeared to calm instantly. Harry had never seen Crabbe or Goyle, either of them, ever, touch Draco or use their size to shove him around.

Harry turned around and kept walking.

"We've been summoned by the Dark Lord."

The simple sentence sent Draco spiraling downward. All at once he felt himself lapse into a very certain, very precise despair. It was all happening now, he realized. Was this really what they'd been waiting for? Was this really what they'd dreamt of, talked about when they were children? All their lives, this had been it.

Growing old enough to join Voldemort and fight for their cause. This was a vision realized. So why did it feel so wrong?

They were finally getting what they wanted... at once, he stopped talking and his hands fell to his sides. He ripped out of goyle's grasp and walked away without saying a word.

"Professor Dumbledore?"

"Ah, Harry."

Dumbledore smiled at him from behind his desk. "I was hoping I'd be receiving a visit from you soon. Tell me, how are things?"

"I think Draco Malfoy is in danger of getting the dark mark," he blurted out suddenly, before he even had a chance to greet the Professor.

Dumbledore folded his hands in his lap.

"Well, that's certainly a good point with which to start a conversation..."

Harry sat and told Dumbledore his story in measured, thoughtful sentences, and when he was finished Dumbledore had an expression on his face that was hard to read through his snowy beard and eyebrows.

Dumbledore decided he wouldn't tell Harry that Draco had already received the dark mark. This was more serious a matter than they had ever had to deal with before, and Dumbledore knew that Harry's involvement in such a situation could possibly be dangerous to his well being.

"You know, Harry, I'm glad you've told me this. It seems to validate a suspicion I've had. Professor Snape has also noticed a," Dumbledore paused here, as though thinking carefully, "change in Draco's behavior, and times being what they are... We can't imagine-"

"What things must be like for him," Harry half finished, half interrupted.

Dumbledore nodded. "Exactly, Harry. I knew you'd understand." Harry smiled an apprehensive sort of smile. "Be kind to him harry, if you have a chance."

Harry thought about this. Had Malfoy been there to hear Dumbledore say that, it would have pissed him off terribly, and Harry knew it. He seriously doubted Malfoy would even let him 'be kind'.

He certainly hadn't been open to the idea when harry had visited him in the infirmary.

"No offense, Professor, but Malfoy's kind of hard to be nice to."

Dumbledore laughed and sat back in his chair. "Merely a suggestion." His smile reached his bright crinkled eyes, and they shone.

"What do you think about the early break?" he asked Harry with interest.

Harry shrugged. "We just got here! Ron wrote his mum to ask if I can go home with him," he said, and then added, "but I think I should stay. I want to find out what Malfoy's up to."

Dumbledore 'hmmm'ed and nodded. "You know, it would be much safer for everyone, both the Weasleys and you, if you were to stay. That's very smart of you, Harry."

Harry smiled.

sunday morning

When Pig swooped down out of the swarm of owls, zigging and zagging like some misguided little bolt of lightening, ron was beaming madly. If the letter said what he hoped it said, he and harry would be sitting side by side on october first, racing away from Hogwarts on the train towards an early vacation.

Pig landed and twittered about across the table, almost as if he were a chicken.

Ron snatched the letter off his talon while Pig wasn't looking, distracted by Hermione feeding him little scraps off her breakfast plate. Pig had recently begun snapping at anyone that tried to retrieve their mail from him. On many occasions Ron had been less than successful in getting his letters away from the tiny, manic depressive owl, and he often swatted at the ridiculous thing with bitten, bloodied fingers and a swear upon his lips.

But today was different, today was a good day. Ron could feel it in his bones and taste it in the familiar flavor of his pumpkin juice. Maybe that was what made him so angry. The letter was opened and read twice, once to find out what it said and another time to piss himself off even more. His mum had said no, and that wasn't the worst part of it.

"What's it say ron?" Harry asked.

Ron cleared his throat and read the last paragraph on the page aloud, his voice filled with a tangible loathing that dripped from his words like rancid, clotted milk.

"I'm so sorry to have to tell you this, but I'm afraid Harry can't come this time. You don't know how much I regret saying no, but it's simply safer for Harry if he stays on at school." Ron looked at Harry. He was red in the face with fury.

Harry sighed. "She's right, Ron. Even Dumbledore said..."

Hermione piped up. "When did you talk to dumbledore?" she asked with interest, as she buttered her toast.

"Last night," Harry answered casually.

Ron sulked quietly for some time, as Harry and Hermione continued their conversation. "It's not bloody fair!" Ron burst out randomly, scowling. "You shouldn't have to stay behind just because of..."

Harry looked at him, blinking. "You-Know-Who," Ron finished.

"Ron, I can't leave! Voldemort and his death eaters are out there at this very moment doing god knows what! If I were to go with you and he tried to come after me, your entire family would be in danger, and I can't do that to you...any of you."

Hermione nodded once in solid agreement, and ron crossed his arms. 


	9. Butterbeer and Owls, O what can I do now

Draco couldn't say that he was sorry crabbe and goyle had gone.

After his embarrassing encounter with Greg in the hallway, He hadn't spoken a word to either one of them at all, so disgusted was he with them.

Maybe it was because he was on the other side of things now, but he suspected, and secretly he knew, that Crabbe and Goyle would slip into their appointed places under Voldemort's thumb as if it were the most natural thing in the world.

They would assume their positions as his faithful henchmen without a second thought. It was within their nature to serve, after all they'd been his thugs since he could remember.

Once, when they had been third years, he had demanded they catch a cat so he could cut off its head. He had wanted to save it's skull and keep it's spirit as a familiar, but when they'd brought him the pitiful, bleeding creature to him, he found he couldn't do it.

In the end, Crabbe had to bash its little kitty head in with a rock. It had been the humane thing to do, after all, to end it's suffering.

He should've been glad to be rid of them, but when he woke up alone in his dorm that morning, with Greg and Vin already gone, instead of smiling a broad smile to himself and kicking off his covers with a snap in his step, he found himself sobered by the silence that greeted him.

The fifth year Slytherin dorm was a freeze frame of everyday chaos. The beds were all unmade, cold and damp in the Hogwarts dungeon. The stone floor was littered with undershirts, ripe shorts, and what seemed to be at least twelve stark black articles of clothing. In one desolate, abandoned little corner of the room there moldered a pile of very smelly socks. Vin's porn magazines hung halfway out from under his feather mattress, as if having been haphazardly stuffed there in a moment of embarrassment.

They didn't tempt Draco; he'd seen them all before, and more often than not they proved to not suit his tastes or liking at all. He didn't care for freak out, sideshow porn.

Everything was so still, so quiet.

He wondered how long he would be safe there, able to live like this. How long would he, and the other students be able to keep hold here, in this place, before things got really bad?

Draco knew his time was running out. It was already October first. He knew the letters from his Father would be arriving soon, asking him about his progress with Harry, asking him when... he could already feel the creeping fingers of manic panic squeezing his insides, twisting his tender organs into hard knots of meat that could not function or process.

He had to figure out what he was going to do.

Breakfast was an absolutely quiet affair. The great hall seemed so vast without it's usual fill of noise and warm bodies. The students were few and silent. Draco sat and stared at his toast with a certain amount of disinterest while poking at his porridge with a fork.

He was sure he must look traumatized. He was growing thinner, and that was bad. People weren't 'supposed to notice' ... He stabbed his toast with violent disgust and looked across the hall at Hermione and Harry, who sat side by side eating quietly.  
>Damn them.<p>

Draco had no solution to this problem, he concluded. No matter how he thought about it, he had no idea what he was going to do. There was no answer. So, with a vision of Harry burning the backs of his eyelids he closed his eyes and asked for a sign.

Throughout the day, he was constantly shocked by the actual number of students that had gone home. There were only twelve hufflepuffs left. Mcgonagall had to announce at breakfast that all remaining sixth years, from each of the four houses, had been grouped together for core classes like transfiguration, potions, charms, and defense against the dark arts. Minor and elective classes like divination and invocation had been canceled all together.

Classes proved to be slow and uneventful. They ended at one o'clock. For just a minute in transfiguration, Draco dared to think that Harry was going to sit by him, but Blaise slipped into the empty seat and the Gryffindor moved past them towards the back without a word.

After the day's lessons expired, Draco had wandered the empty corridors for at least an hour before deciding to get off campus all together. He found the castle to be oppressive and depressing. Cracking his knuckles Draco decided to go into Hogsmeade and have a butterbeer. If he was going to feel this way, he might as well feel it someplace where he could get drunk.

He got his cloak and, sullenly, set off towards Hogsmead over the grassy Hogwarts grounds, through the gates and then slowly, down the road.

Harry had spotted Draco from high above as he was looking out the window of the Gryffindor sixth year dorm. The Slytherin boy was a black and blond dot moving across the satin green of the late grass, but he was a lone dot, solitary.

He looked small without Crabbe and Goyle. He cut a look across the room to ron's empty bed. the chudley cannons poster above was a churning, lurid orange. occasionally, as the players whizzed by, he would catch a glimpse of a cheery smiling face. the poster made him feel sad.

He pushed his hair back from his forehead and wiped his glasses on the edge of his sweater, blinking as the world slid out of focus.

...maybe...

He put his glasses back on and had another look out the window. Harry could still catch Draco, if he was fast about it, so he grabbed his cloak and set off.

"Malfoy!"

Draco heard the call and knew who it was, but he didn't want to see Harry. Not today, at any rate, and so he kept walking.

Harry scowled and picked up his pace, walking just a little faster. He knew Draco had heard him, that arse. By the time Harry caught up with Draco, he was out of breath and wheezing.

"Malfoy," he said again, this time only a few feet behind him. Draco turned to look at Harry over his shoulder and stopped.

Harry closed the distance and came to stand before him. "Usually when someone speaks to you, the polite thing to do is answer them. You'd think with all your money you'd be able to afford some manners."

Harry hadn't meant to be rude. It just came out that way. Insults seemed to be the only form of communication they were capable of. He swallowed and then said, more meekly, "Anyway, I have to talk to you."

"Usually, when someone doesn't gratify the other party with an answer, that means they don't want to speak to them," Draco shot back, quick and bitingly cold, disregarding what Harry had just said.

That one quip was enough to want to make Harry turn right around and march himself right back to the castle. Was this really worth all the trouble? He asked with himself inwardly.

"What do you want, Potter?" Draco asked, his eyebrows raised. He crossed arms over his chest and looked at Harry, the expression on his face bored and unimpressed.

"I just said 'I have to. talk. to. you,'" he answered slowly, annunciating the words as if Draco were stupid.

Draco began to walk away, abruptly ending the conversation. Harry followed him, keeping pace so they walked side by side. They continued on like this, in silence, for what seemed like an endless amount of time.

Draco didn't look at Harry, he kept his eyes on the road before him, watching his boots step their way over puddles and potholes. Finally, he grew irritated by Harry's presence and snapped "I thought you said you had to talk to me. And walk on your own side of the road, why don't you?"

Harry frowned and lost his temper momentarily. "The road's a free country, Malfoy. I know your used to bossing everyone about and getting your way, but I am not Crabbe." he paused. "Or Goyle."

Draco stopped walking and shoved Harry away from him. "The road is not a country," he reprimanded. Harry stumbled back and, much to Draco's dismay, laughed.

He was getting to Draco; irritating him. Harry had the upper hand and he knew it. So why shouldn't he laugh?

"What's your problem, Malfoy?" Harry asked, gaining his balance and moving to keep up with him.

"What's my bloody problem? I'll tell you what my problem is! You are my problem!"

"Glad to know I've finally gotten under your skin." Harry grinned again. "Like all the times you've ruffled my feathers."

"Feathers, Potter?" Draco asked. "I always knew you were a chicken."

"Look, I just want to talk with you about something. Do you really have to snap at me like that?" Harry grabbed at Malfoy's left arm, almost playfully.

Draco cried out in pain and ripped his arm from the other boy's grasp, whirling around and glaring at Harry angrily as he clutched his limb to his body.

"What the HELL do you think your doing, Potter? don't you EVER touch me."

Harry's eyed went wide. They were both silent for a minute. He hadn't expected that. When he realized he had no idea what to say he fell back on routine.

Maybe it'd lighten things up a little. "...even as a chicken I've got twice the guts you have, you stuck-up ponce!"

"Oh, sod off," Draco spat. He stopped walking. They were only about twenty feet outside the village. In the bright sunshine, Draco looked absolutely, murderously angry.

That was when harry decided to get down to business. No more wasting time. "Look, I know about what happened. You were there that night. I saw you running that day in the woods," Harry blurted out.

Draco turned very pale all at once. Paler than Harry had ever seen him, paler than that time they'd had to serve detention together in the forbidden forest, searching for the injured unicorn.

Draco sank slowly to the ground and sat down upon the packed dirt road. He felt hot and cold all at once, and a faint sweat broke out on his brow and upper lip.

"I know what they made you do, too. That's why you were sick in potions, because you aren't one of them yet..." Harry looked down at him. "You can't let them give you the dark mark. You don't have to."

Draco didn't look at Harry. He didn't feel well at all. This was too much, and to top it off, Harry didn't really know the truth after all.

Harry didn't know that Draco had already received the mark, that it was already simmering and seething in his skin, burning away as he sat there. The only knowledge Harry possesed concerning the matter was the knowledge he himself had invented. Draco sat absolutely still.

he wasn't even sure if he was breathing.

"Er...Are you alright?" Harry finally asked. Seeing Draco just sit there, unmoving, not speaking, frightened him.

He didn't know the boy sitting there before him. This wasn't the Malfoy that jeered at him, or the Malfoy who wiggled around the halls ridiculously, doing his most insulting impersonations of Harry.

The words that came out of Draco's mouth next were quiet. He didn't look up as he spoke.

"I know I can't," he lied.

Harry nodded and offered to help Draco up off the ground, reluctantly extending his hand out. After a moment, Draco accepted his hand.

He stood up and took a deep breath, swaying from the head rush. He brushed the dust from his fine robes and kept his eyes on the ground.

"So..." Harry said, and let go of Draco's hand. It had been cold and soft and Harry still felt draco's skin on his own afterward. He wiped his hand on his robes absently, trying to rid himself of the sensation.

"...Do you want to talk about it?" he asked slowly, looking at him.

"There's nothing to talk about, Potter. It's like you said, you already know." Another lie.

"Now what?" Harry asked. He felt stupid, suddenly. Why had he assumed that confronting Draco would help anything?

"You haven't...told anyone, have you?" Draco suddenly asked, and looked up at Harry. Draco picked at a hangnail nervously. It began to bleed.

Harry shook his head.

"How did you-?"

"Know?" Harry interjected, and Draco nodded once. Harry was suddenly flooded with a sense of deja vu, as if they'd been through this before. He fished in his pocket and pulled out the clipping.

"I figured it out after I read this," he said. Draco held out his hand and Harry gave him the article.

"Well, that, and your shoes..." he laughed, nervously. "Those are wild." Harry smiled just a little.

Draco looked down at the exquisite boots upon his feet. "Oh. Ihank you...I got them at Bloodworth and Blackchurch."

Harry didn't know what Bloodworth and Blackchurch was; he didn't ask.

Another silence settled over them, long and miserably awkward.

"So...where's weasley?"  
>"Going to hogsmeade, are you?"<p>

They both spoke at once and Harry managed another strand of nervous laughter that hung in the air, luminous like pearls.  
>"He's gone home."<br>"And your staying back because it's not safe," Draco said, and shifted his weight from one foot to the other.

"Am I right? Personally I don't think Dumbledore should've sent anyone home. Hogwarts is ten times safer than anywhere else. You couldn't get me to leave if you paid me."

"...It's better if people are with their families," Harry said, weakly defending Dumbledore's decision.

He looked down at the golden clasp that fastened his cloak, playing with it.

"Not for me, it isn't," Draco said. Harry looked up at him.

"Right, but that's why you're still here," he offered a crooked sort of smile. Harry scratched his head and squinted. The sun was going down over the Hogsmeade skyline, winking on his glasses. "Go for a butterbeer?"

"Well, I walked all this way, didn't I? it'd be sort of pointless for me to just go back to the castle now."

Harry was quiet. Draco sort of knew that Harry was waiting for him to ask Harry along. He also had a feeling that harry was probably under instruction to keep an eye on him, seeming that Harry had some kind of grasp on what was going on.

Draco looked at Harry. He had asked for a sign, and he supposed this was it. He turned and started walking. Harry just stood there.

"Well, Potter? Are you coming, or not?"

"Oh, yeah. Yeah. sure," he darted to catch up and together they finished the walk into Hogsmeade.

Just as Harry and Draco sat down with their butterbeers, Snape began to make a potion. This was strange, because Severus was rarely possessed with an urge strong enough to make him simply begin stewing something up. The only other time this had happened was when he had come up with a potion that was good for nothing but a peculiar smelling sort of hair oil.

He was enjoying an evening in his apartment, which was located deep in the winding bowels of all the passageways and lightless caverns that made up the Slytherin dungeons. This room was one of his favorites, and so he had made it his private kitchen, cooking up any number of volatile brews on an ordinary day. He never used his poisons, of course, never having found any use for them... but it seemed their dangerous presence soothed him.

To know that at any given moment he had over a hundred deadly killers ready and waiting to be used seemed to instill a sense of safety in severus.

Across from his cauldrons, (two of which simmered companionably over open fires), there was a large opening in the rock wall. The opening was a sort of window, quartered into four sections by three thick iron bars. This window enabled him to look down the mountain, out over hogsmeade, and on evenings such as this, after the sun sank beyond the edges of the world, it was perfect for astronomic calculations and astrology.

The other perk about having his apartment situated so far from the dorms was the privacy. Students rarely bothered him, and he doubted weather most of them actually know where their head of house slept. Students usually didn't come this far below the castle. Every year, he gave the new batch of slytherin students the same speech; warning them not to venture too far or too deep into the vast expanse of the tunnels, for if they were to get lost, it might be days, weeks even, before they were actually found.

He also never neglected to remind the Slytherin students that he was never exactly sure just what might be lurking down some dank corridor, slinking from shadow to shadow, darting around corners, simply biding it's time... waiting for a meal.

He smiled as his hands seemed to move themselves, searching through shelves, fists closing around bottles of powder and jellies and strange orange pastes. He wasn't quite sure what he was making, exactly, but this did not concern the potions master yet. Thus far it was a simple concoction, the master brew containing common herbs, mostly.  
>He looked over his table at the wolfsbane and the nightshade, mugwart and rosemary, but none of these would do. Not tonight. This brew that simmered before him demanded something far more exotic... something more dangerous. He took a long silver key from one of his desk drawers and crossed the room to a small cupboard.<p>

In actuality, it was a lovely old china house that had been there when he'd found the room. As he had no china, he had kept it and used it to keep his own most intimate treasures safe from prying eyes. It's deep cherry wood glowed, and the wood was inlaid with exquisite byzantine patterns of mother of pearl. The lock clicked softly, erotically audible in the quiet.

Opening its doors, he saw his things laid out before him upon it's polished shelves. A skull that he had cleaned all by himself, boiling it's flesh and then scraping away the tender, bloodless meat to reveal that perfect, perfect ivory... he ran his fingertips over it, recalling the very first time he had laid eyes on that milky white. There was a red lock of a long lost lover's hair like fire bundled up, bound in black ribbon, a bottle of the muggle poison strychnine...

"Most people don't know this, but if you put a Fizzing Whizbee in your butterbeer it makes you funny."

"Funny? Funny how?"

"You know... funny."

"...Really?" A mischievous smile began to creep itself over Harry's features.

"Really," replied Draco.

His fingers danced and came alive, stroking over his precious things as light as feathery violin strings. This silent music grew and swelled and spilled over into it's crescendo as Severus snapped his fingers closed around a bottle of ground pufferfish.

He had picked it up off a very dirty jamaican witch, whose filthy dreadlocks reached the backs of her knees. she wore bright colored scarves and smelled of ganja. She was asking six galleons, and Severus had only had seven at the time, but naturally he had purchased the powder. He had read of its results, and had had more than one potion he'd liked to mix it with.

Only later did he find out that six galleons for a bottle of ground pufferfish was ridiculously cheap.

Pufferfish was especially popular with Haitians and Jamaicans- when an individual digests this fish, it shocks and sickens their system so badly that a sort of pseudo-death overcomes the individual. Then, later, when the fish's poison wore off, you dig up the already buried individual and 'revive' them. The victim remembers little to nothing at all about their previous life, and thus can be easily enslaved.

There was only one scant pinch of the dust left. The exact amount needed for an absolutely perfect sleeping potion.

"No I just heard it again! I'm TELLING you! Something in my nostril is making noise! It's SPEAKING TO ME!" Harry was nearly screaming with laughter. He pounded his fists against the tabletop and sat forward, wheezing between gales of laughter.

Across the booth, Draco was giving him a look that was a mixture of amusement, disbelief and concern. "That's right, Potter. It's telling you not to have anymore of this..." he pried the bottle out of Harry's fingers.

Harry leaned back against the seat and laughing weakly, said "No... No. You can't, it's my friend." He made a sad face and sighed.

Then, a few seconds later began to giggle again. "Oh... come back.. Mister Butterbeany..."

"...Pardon?" Draco was beginning to laugh a little now, too. Harry had only had one bottle, and he was whacked out beyond coherent thought.

"You are utterly bizarre, you know that?" Draco laughed.

Harry heaved himself up and put his elbows on the table and looked at Draco seriously. He cocked his head.

Behind his glasses, one eye was squinted, the other wide and watery. Draco laughed at him. Harry looked more than just 'funny'. He looked ridiculous.

"No more bizarre than you," Harry said quietly.

Harry's stare was so intent, so intense that Draco had look away. His arm burned for just a second and he shifted uncomfortably.

"Potter," he warned, and stopped. "...Why're you looking at me like that?"

"Call me Harry."

"I wonder about you," Harry said after a moment of silence.

"What? Why? What do you wonder?" Draco asked, looking at him with a frown. "What're you talking about, Potter?"

"I said 'call me Harry'," Harry said, and held his chin in his hands. His elbows slid over the smooth surface of the table and he kept slumping and having to right himself again.

"I wonder about you, because of that day on the train, and because of all the times you've been an arse to me. You're not half as much a bad ass as you'd like everyone to think."

"What?"

"Well, I see things like this; you could've gotten the dark mark, but you didn't. You showed us those clippings, when you didn't have to. You're sitting here with me when you hate my guts..."

Draco looked at him blankly.

"What're you really like under there?" Harry asked.

Draco swallowed.

As Severus stood, stirring his perfect sleeping potion, he happened to glance up and see the dark clouds creeping in, blanketing the sky with the promise of a storm. There would be no star gazing this night...

"How can you say that?"  
>"Say what? That the dark arts are useful?"<p>

Harry looked appalled. "Everyone ought to know the dark arts. It's practical." Draco looked at him.

"You are mad."

"If everyone knew the dark arts, there wouldn't be any of this Voldemort nonsense," Draco explained. "Even if there were, it wouldn't be half as big a deal as it is now... if you can think like a dark wizard you can defeat a dark wizard. Father doesn't know, but I've been teaching myself... he won't teach me, I mean."

Harry sat back. This gave him something to think about. "Why won't he?" he asked.

Draco gave him a look. Harry thought about this. He'd never known his own father.

"I wish I'd known my mum and dad," he said finally. "People say I'm like him... but,"  
>Harry shrugged.<p>

Draco looked at him. Harry looked sad, sitting there. Draco nodded.

They settled into silence for a little while. "It's getting late..." Draco finally said, and looked across their table. It was littered with empty butterbeer bottles and fizzing whizbee wrappers. what a mess. "We had better go..."

When draco and Harry came out of the inn, it was snowing.

1 


	10. A plan

still october first

Severus stood at his window, his hands resting upon the cold stone edge. Flurries blew against his cloak, sticking their chilly, intricate bodies to his eyelashes, clinging to strands of his dark hair. Far below, moving through the snow and back towards the castle were two bodies: Harry Potter and Draco Malfoy.

He watched them shove one another playfully, occasionally stopping to stoop and scoop up handfuls of snow, tossing it at one another. He watched as Harry ran and tackled Draco, heard Draco's strangled laughter drifting up to him on a chill wind.

Severus assumed they had been drinking from the way they staggered and stumbled. His mouth drew into a slightly disapproving line.

"Take that!" Harry cried gleefully, tossing a snowball at him. Draco had toppled over into the snow, and his neatly slicked back hair seemed to have been knocked astray, a strand or two hung over his eyes. He stood up, brushing the dirt, slush and snow from his cloak. Harry had never seen Malfoy look so human.

"You got me dirty!" Draco said (Harry wasn't sure if he was playing or complaining for real), and glared at him. He looked a mess.

"You're REALLY going to get it now, Potter," he threatened and grinned madly.

Draco lunged at him and seized him by the legs, dragging him down into the cold blanket of snow that had begun to stick to the grass. Rising into the night, Harry's laughter and cries were eerie, a strange, sad reminder of better times.

"I SAID to CALL. me. HARRY!"

Draco pounced him again as Harry tried to scramble away and sat on his stomach, raising a handful of fresh chill snow high above his head. Harry tried his best to shove him off but Draco, it seemed, was stronger. "Hey. Hey! What're you- mphhhh!"

Draco brought his hand down and clapped it over harry's open lips, giving him a gagging mouthful of the freshly fallen flakes. Harry hissed and coughed, spitting it out as Draco giggled gleefully.

"What the hell did you do that for?" Harry asked angrily. Harry tried to sit up but couldn't, so he made an attempt at trying to shove Draco, but only managed to knock his own glasses askew.

He stopped struggling and looked up at Draco, scowling. Draco was smiling; a sincere, sweet smile that he had never seen on him before. He thought of Ron's awkward, honest smile.. Harry thought everyone must have a smile like that, one true grin that shone through from time to time.

Draco leaned forward a little and said one word softly, fondly, before moving off him all at once and darting drunkenly across the feild.

"Harry!"

Severus turned away from the window.

They had played for as long as they could stand before the bitter cold seemed to seep through their fingers, threatening to numb the warm fluids bubbling in the center of their bones. Shivering but happy they walked the remainder of the way across the grounds together in a companionable silence, each smiling to himself.

Their breath came out in gallant white puffs as they climbed the steps and pushed open the huge wooden doors. Soon they were standing in the great hall, apple cheeked and out of breath.

"So. See you tomorrow then?" Harry asked, and took his glasses off to wipe them on the end of his robe. "We could sit together in transfiguation. If you want, I mean."

Draco watched Harry stuff them back up on the bridge of his nose, blinking slowly behind them to adjust his eyes.

"Tomorrow's saturday, halfwit." Draco said, and scratched at his arm. It had begun to irritate him again.

"Oh. Monday, then."

"Are you sure that's such a good idea? Because I don't think that would look good at all. And anyway, what about all the people around? And what about that muggle girl, Granger? What's she going to say?"

"Do you really care that much about what other people think?" Harry asked, and almost sounded a little disappointed.

"I've got a reputation to uphold here." Draco said smoothly, and smirked.

"I'm just going to be honest. It's not an insult, but.. your reputation is the reason noone likes you." Harry said dully.

Draco's face fell.

"Hermione isn't going to mind." he finished, and then added, "..and she's not a muggle."

Draco shrugged. He was still taken aback by harry's comment about his reputation.

"What about after classes?" Harry asked. "I know I'll have charms homework, so you will, too. We could meet in the library.. study together."

Draco looked at Harry, sizing him up.. calculating. After a minute, he agreed. "Well. alright. But you'd better be excellent at charms, Potter." Harry opened his mouth to speak, but draco cut him off- harry was sad to see draco slip back into his comfortable old demeanor.

"Yes, I know, I know. Call you harry."

Harry smiled a little.

"Well. goodnight then, Harry." Draco said and watched Harry walk away from where he stood, crossing the great hall and then climbing the staircase slowly.

Once Draco was in the privacy of the Slytherin common room he slung off his damp cloak like it were a wet blanket and sank into a chair before the fire, warming his chilly white fingers. He felt decidedly better, somehow. Tonight had been the first bit of fun he'd had since he'd been back at Hogwarts, and to think! He'd shared it with Potter- he stopped and corrected himself mentally. Not potter, but Harry.

As much as he hated to admit it, Harry actually wasn't that bad, once you got past.. nearly everything.

A small part of him felt absolutely smug, like he wanted to sit back, cross his arms and say "finally!"

He had always had a sneaking suspicion that they could have been friends. Draco was an aristocrat, afterall, and aristocrats always had celebrity friends; it was practically type. He'd even offered, once, but of course Harry had declined. Draco's thoughts darkened. If it weren't for stupid old Ron Weasley, he and Harry could have had five whole years of fun exactly like they'd had tonight.

"Just what do you think your doing, Mr. Malfoy?"

Draco jumped and turned to look at Snape, who was gliding across the room slowly. Apparently he had been hiding in the shadows, waiting for Draco's return.

"Oh, hello, Professor." Draco said easily, and sank back into his chair again. His head rolled on his long neck drunkenly. "I've just been sitting here.. it's snowing outside, you know. I've already had a go at it, though. Made first tracks through it and everything."

Snape was quiet for a moment, and Draco wondered if he was still standing there.

"Since when, Mr. Malfoy, are you on any sort of friendly ground with .." he sneered. "Harry Potter?" Snape asked. He was now standing just behind the high back of Draco's arm chair, looking down at him with a sort of demanding that made Draco feel like he was in trouble.

"We aren't.." he stopped. "He, er. knows." Draco finished with an anticlimactic flourish.

Snape scowled. "You told him?" Snape asked, almost disbelieving.

"He worked it out!" Draco defended, looking up at the potions master.

It came all at once. "Do you have any idea how DANGEROUS it is for you to be cavorting with.. with that disgusting.. YOU.." Severus snatched Draco up out of his chair by his collar and brought Draco's face close to his. Draco had never seen the potions master this angry before.

Professor Snape was absolutely terrifying. His dark eyes were ringed with golden fire, his yellow teeth and sour breath making Draco cringe away in revulsion.

Snape shook him and hissed "Voldemort is keeping close tabs on you, boy. He knows what you are doing and he knows where you are and you are endangering yourself because you haven't got a god damn bit of sense."

He shook Draco once more for emphasis. "Come with me. We're paying professor Dumbledore a visit."

He swept off, dragging Draco behind him, still holding him by the collar as though he were a rowdy dog that needed to be punished.

Draco wasn't quite sure why they were going to see Dumbledore; he couldn't imagine why he'd be in trouble for talking to Pott- Harry. It wasn't as if Draco had any intention of actually bringing Harry to Voldemort...

Snape's mouth had drawn into such a tight line that it looked as if his lips had disappeared, sucked up into his face somehow, never to return again.

When they reached Dumbledore's office, Dumbledore was standing there with his hands folded and a positively pleasant expression on his face, as if he had been expecting them.

Professor Snape released Draco's collar immediately. His lips had only just rejoined with the rest of his face when they seemed to vanish again. Draco straightened his robes and shot a resentful look towards Professor Snape when he was sure the potions master wasn't looking.

"Severus! And young Draco!" Dumbledore said delightedly, "Come and sit! Have a cup of tea, won't you?" Two more armchairs were conjured and Dumbledore poured them each a cup of tea, dropping himself into the chair nearest to the fire.

Whatever it was that Snape wanted to tell Dumbledore, he seemed to have forgotten because he seated himself silently and shot an unsavory, scolding look towards Draco.

They sat in a half circle around the fire quietly for a few minutes, before Dumbledore took a lingering sip of his tea and then set the cup upon it's saucer. "How's that potion coming, severus?" Dumbledore asked, and Professor Snape looked up at him, eyebrows lifted. He almost looked surprised.

"Nicely, thanks." he said.

"Excellent, excellent.."

Draco had no idea what they were talking about. "Potion?" he asked faintly.

Dumbledore smiled and looked at Draco. "Severus has been brewing something for me." He said simply. Draco looked from Dumbledore's calm face to Professor Snape, who was looking quite stormy indeed, his gaunt features flickering and alive with shadows. The old man smiled pleasantly and Draco smiled too, albeit a little apprehensively. He was still feeling a little 'funny'.

He'd had six of those whizzing fizzy butterbeer concoctions, afterall.

"Can you believe this weather we're having? Snow in october! Coming down quite hard, Draco?"

"Yes, Professor," he agreed, quietly.

Dumbledore smiled again. Draco took a tentative sip of his tea and set it down, looking around Dubledore's office curiously. He'd never actually been to see Dumbledore before. Fawkes cooed softly from his perch, and Draco watched professor Dumbledore drop one hand down, waving his fingers. Fawkes flew to him and nuzzled his hand, before he rested his burning, feathered skull on the old man's knee.

Draco blinked and looked away as the phoenix gazed at him intently, with some interest. It's eyes smouldered as if it knew secret things about Draco. He shifted uncomfortably.

"I'm quite glad you've both come." Dumbledore said, and wrapped his gnarled hands around his tea cup, as if those withered knuckles were drinking in the warmth.

"We've got serious matters to discuss, and as much as I hate the prospect of being serious, I fear we must. What, Draco, do you suppose we ought to do about," he motioned towards draco's arm gently, "your predicament?"

Draco wasn't sure which predicament he meant. did he mean Voldemort himself, or Harry, or his father, or his task, or the actual dark mark, itself? Or was he speaking relatively? Draco wondered.

"er.-"

"I have been thinking." Severus said suddenly.

Both Draco and Professor Dumbledore looked at him with interest. "Go on, Severus. You've got our attention."

"Taking into account that Voldemort's finally reassumed some type of physical, corporeal form- a body- one can only assume that his next step would be to try and regain some of the power he's lost."

Dumbledore nodded, listening.

"However, corporeal bodies can be injured. When one dwells in a body, the life can be crushed.. smothered out of it." Draco was chilled by snape's word. He remembered the metallic taste of that little boy, the limp corpse in his arms, light and soft like some big, dead doll. He shivered and tried to think of other things.

"We can't be sure who he's allied himself with this time, not at this point, atleast, but-" Draco piped up, then. "I could find out," he offered quietly, running one fingertip around the edge of his teacup. The two older men looked at him.

"That would be most helpful, Draco." Dumbledore said pleasantly.

Professor Snape cleared his throat scoldingly. "Please do not interrupt me when I am speaking," He said cooly.

Draco withered in his chair, and taking a long drink of his tea, said meekly, "Sorry, Professor.."

"As I was saying, this would be the time to act against him. We can not avoid this any longer. This battle that we've been dreading is inevitable, and the most opportune time to strike Voldemort down has finally come." The potions master looked at Draco.

"This task you've been given very well could be they key to Voldemort's undoing.."

Dumbledore sighed. "I fear I must agree with you, Severus," he admitted, and swallowed the last of the sweet, soothing substance in his cup.

Between the three of them, a plan began to formulate.

That night as he was going to sleep, Harry lay on his back and stared up at his ceiling dreamily, reliving his evening over and over again. He could hardly believe what had happened. He had spent his evening with Malfoy, and had actually enjoyed himself.

Harry had never, in all his life, envisioned that happening. He thought of all the nasty, hateful things Draco had ever said to him, all the times he'd acted horribly. And somehow, strangely, Harry began to understand why. Now, granted, living with the Dursleys was hard, but Harry couldn't imagine living with Lucius Malfoy. That bastard made his own son (his own flesh and blood!), eat someone!

Harry shuddered to think what Lucius would ever do to him if he got his hands on Harry. ..Draco probably needed a friend more than harry realized. He suspected that Crabbe and Goyle weren't good for much if it didn't have to do with pummeling someone, and he didn't imagine they were terribly great at carrying on a conversation, either.

He remembered the way draco had acted towards them when he had Ron had taken the polyjuice potion. Draco had expected them to laugh at all his terrible jokes, to agree with him on everything. It was sort of sad, really, that Draco needed so much reassurance.

And what would Ron say, he mused, if he knew. He could already hear Ron's reaction in his head: "WHAT?"

Outside the flurries swirled past his window. He looked across the dark and warm of his room, and found the world outside was blanketed in bright, crisp white. The sky was luminous, and everything seemed to glow. Frosty patterns sparkled on the glass panes. It felt strangely like winter break, what with the snow and everything. Almost christmas, even though it was another month and a half away.

He wondered if Draco was still awake, if he was lying in bed like Harry was, thinking to himself about the other. He scratched at his stomach, lifting the shirt of his pajamas up just slightly, poking one finger into his bellybutton idly.

Actually...

He looked around the empty dorm. This was the first night he'd ever spent alone, in all the six years he'd been at hogwarts. There was noone to disturb him with their snoring, Noone to see him.. Noone to catch him if he..

He shivered as his dick began to stiffen in his pajama pants; one hand slid beneath the elastic of his waistband and he sighed, eyes dropping closed.

Finally he slid the down off his slim hips, glad to be rid of the damn things. He let his mind wander as his hand worked slowly, thinking of all the people he'd want to spend the night with. There was cho, of course, and his mind lingered on her for a time before the thought made him feel faintly sick and strangely guilty, Fleur... his mind wandered a little farther and landed on Elliot Bloodworth, a seventh year Ravenclaw who was very very nice looking.

Thinking about other guys wasn't something harry usually allowed himself to do; it excited him a little too much, and that sort of unnerved him. He wasn't some.. some pouf. He just thought the idea of another guy was sort of hot, that was all. Nothing more.

Finally harry's mind settled on someone he had never thought of before. Someone that, a week ago, would have made his skin crawl. Strangely, thinking about Draco didn't make harry feel weird at all.

Well, it did, but it was a good kind of weird. He certainly couldn't think of Ron. That just felt wrong. but Draco... There was something to that.

He thought about how close Draco's face had been to his own that night, remembered the feeling of Draco's weight upon his body, the way he had sort of slid up against him.. the warmth of his breath.

His hand moved faster, toes curling in the cotton of his bed sheets. ...he was lying on his back and Draco was riding him, Harry's hands guiding Draco's hips in a mad rhythm as Draco rose and fell... Draco spilling over his own hand, onto Harry's stomach, his hot insides sucking and swirling at Harry...

If he tried hard enough, he could almost hear Draco crying his name.

Harry moaned.  
> <p>


	11. Broomsticks

saturday

That morning, when he awoke, Draco's first thoughts were of Harry.

He wasn't thinking about the sick feeling that would swallow him up as the day ensued, wasn't thinking of the dark mark. Draco wasn't even thinking about the plan that he, Professor Snape, and Dumbledore had come up with the night before.

It was just Harry. Of course, Draco probably should have been thinking about that plan, with all it's intricacies and tangles. He had a lot to do, and what he did determined the outcome of not only his life, but other lives, as well.

The precise details of this carefully outlined scheme weren't exactly clear yet, but Draco was sure that the complications and obstacles would develop as it was acted out. If everything went as it should, Draco would follow his father's instructions as Lucius gave them, leading him to believe that Draco was a loyal, faithful source of information for Voldemort. Meanwhile, Dumbledore would be rallying his allies (using the information Draco provided), and preparing for the final act, the last encounter. The strike down.

but Draco, too enamored with the idea of Harry's friendship, couldn't be bothered to concern himself with such matters.

Rarely had he ever made the kind of friend that he would think of after they'd parted; the kind of friend that you couldn't wait to see again. He tried to rationalize this strange new attachment to Harry by telling himself that it was just because of what had happened. Because he had been feeling down lately.

But really. It was almost too good to be true.

Because of this, breakfast felt dreadfully awkward for Draco. Harry was right there in plain sight - and Draco felt (for some reason) as though he should be.. talking to Harry or.. something. Seeing him, but not being with him felt strange. It created a certain anxiousness in Draco's chest, a want for Harry and his attention that left him feeling like an over-eager puppy.

Draco frowned. He wasn't entirely sure whether or not he liked this unexpected turn of events that had occurred between them. After last night he wasn't quite sure where they stood with one another. Were they friends? Cold acquaintances? He certainly wasn't going to just go over easy as pie and say hello. He'd already been blown off once by Harry - he didn't need to feel that kind of humiliation again.

Draco watched from across the great hall as Harry leaned over the breakfast table, reaching for and finally grasping the salt. He observed the way Harry buttered his toast, talking distractedly to Hermione, the mudblood skirt who used to have the abnormally large teeth. She said something clever and Harry laughed, his glasses slipping down his nose. When he righted them, sliding the specs back into place with the back of his wrist, he dropped the butter into his lap and began to laugh so hard that milk shot out of his nose madly.

Draco (who was trying hard not to smile) was struck by how much of a geek Harry actually was. With his messy hair and appalling taped glasses, he was the epitome of 'dork'. His trousers were old and much too large, and more often than not he seemed to be swimming in his sweaters and shirts. But the funny thing was, all of that didn't seem to bother Draco anymore.

He sighed and looked down at his own breakfast. He wished things could be simple. This was too damn complicated. It was so difficult to give up his preconceived notions about the Gryffindor boy and see him for what he really was. It irritated Draco; the idea that Harry might actually be someone interesting, regardless of fame or status.

Having someone to hate is very therapeutic, and losing that made Draco feel frustrated. It was funny, though, how that worked. The smallest part of him; the part that felt ready to give all that up, was somehow the strongest.

After breakfast, Draco went to see who was playing outside, but the grounds were quiet and ghostly in the cold. It was strange to see all that snow... unbroken, white, and fresh. Usually, there were so many tracks and paths across the grounds by eleven o'clock that it wasn't even worth going outside. And even if you did, and found a patch that hadn't been stomped through, it was usually only big enough to leave a footprint in.

When the quiet and white of the outside world got to be a bit depressing, he ventured back into the warmth of the castle to wander the halls, hoping to run into someone else (Harry) that hadn't, or wasn't able to run home for an early holiday. He went to the library, the great hall, and then finally the owlery, and he didn't see anyone but Peeves, who called him a nancy boy and flung a dead mouse at his head.

The hours passed slowly, and he began to feel sleepy.

It was late afternoon by the time he was nearly set on giving up and going back to his own common room, but then- out of nowhere, Harry wheeled around the corner and nearly ran into him.

"Potter!" he said, so startled that he didn't think to call him Harry.

"There you are. Finally. I've been looking around for you everywhere." Harry said and smiled. This surprised Draco and it was hard for him not to be a little suspicious. But, he reasoned, he had sort of been looking for Harry, too.

"Have you? I was looking for you too. Are you hungover? You certainely look it."

Harry looked a little sick, but he grinned. "Those drinks were something, weren't they?" he laughed. Draco nodded.

Silence fell between them.

"So.. what do you want to do?" Harry asked, looking down at the ground. He shuffled his feet, shifting his weight. Truth be told, there really wasn't much to do.

The Slytherin paused. "Well.. I've got one idea.."

The broom shed was a dark little shack behind greenhouses one, two and three. Musty and cramped, it housed twenty eight brooms in all, Seven Slytherin, seven Gryffindor, seven Hufflepuff and Ravenclaw. Draco could hardly see as he felt along the row of brooms, fingers grasping for the familiar feeling of his own handle.

He was looking for a tremble in the wood itself; his broom always seemed to quake in his hand, as if just waiting to be used to it's full potential. Draco, not unlike Harry, was quite good in the air. However, because he hardly practiced, his skills had never been finely honed. Draco lacked the polished qualities that Harry seemed to posses so naturally while in the air.

It was embarrassing, but tonight, as they made their way through the twilight and onto the quidditch pitch, this would not bother Draco.

"Get the snitch, will you?"  
>"Have you got your broom?"<br>"Not yet. I can't see a thing."  
>"Here, lumos."<p>

A dim light filled the tiny space, and the two boys turned to find themselves only inches apart, almost nose to nose. Draco had no idea they had been standing so close.

"Can you see now?" Harry asked quietly. His eyes were still wide behind his specs, round like saucers at the surprise of finding Draco so near to him. Harry could almost taste Draco's breath, could almost feel him. It made him feel awkward... guilty for thinking about Draco when he'd...

But this was, of course, an irrational fear - Draco didn't know... did he? There was no way... Draco's fist closed around a handle and it jerked just slightly under his touch. He'd found his broom.

"Perfectly, now." Draco whispered, unblinking.

Neither of them spoke for a minute. They just stood there, Draco still clutching his broom, the snitch fluttering wildly in Harry's hand.

Harry's eyes were very green, Draco noticed. Slytherin green. Everyone had always gone on about those green eyes, but he'd never really looked before.

"Hey.." Draco mumbled, still staring.

you've got the greenest eyes.

"...I've found my broom."

"..Your broom?" Harry asked distantly. "Oh. oh. Your broom, right."

They tossed the snitch back and fourth between them, catching it in their fists as they traced arches across the solid gray sky. When they grew tired of trying to outdo one another, Harry tucked the snitch into his pocket for safe keeping, and sped across the pitch towards Draco.

"I bet I could knock you off," Harry said, grinning.

Draco rolled his eyes. "i bet not." he said.

Harry took off and raced around the field once, coming straight for the blond boy. Draco grew fidgety- was Harry going to crash him? Harry stopped just before he hit Draco and Draco flinched, closing his eyes tight. When Harry laughed, Draco opened his eyes, cautiously, and then crossed his arms over his chest, glaring at Harry darkly.

"Told you you couldn't."

"Made you flinch!" he cried, laughing, as he shoved Draco off his broom. Draco fell the ten feet and landed square on his back.

"You are a son of a bitch, you know that, Harry?" he asked, standing up. Swerving and disoriented, Harry just laughed and laughed.

"Oh shut up." Draco said, trying not to smile as he reached for his broom, plucking it out of the air where it was slowly fluttering downward.

By then, the clouds had finally broke and they could see little pieces of the sky here and there, blazing bronze and purple, another day gone.  
>Draco mounted his broom again and sailed upwards high across the sky, stretching his arms out as though he were embracing the twilight.<br>Harry watched with a certain appreciation. It really was an impressive trick, the no hands bit. Maybe he'd even ask Draco to show him. maybe.

Soon after they were simply flying together; soaring high above the Hogwarts grounds, marveling at all of what had been green only a day ago, but was now white instead. The tips of their shoes brushed the very tops of trees, knocking snow from it's place on the branches, sending it swirling downward. The sun was sinking beyond the trees of the forbidden forrest, stars beginning to dot the slowly darkening sky.

The air had a frosty, biting chill which was both refreshing and cruel. Harry smiled at Draco from his broom, and took off into a spectacular dive, dipping back up again just in time to keep from crashing. Draco made slow circles in the air, some twenty or so feet above the edge of the lake. "Is that supposed to be impressive, Harry?" Draco called through the cold playfully.

"It ought to be. It's better than I've ever seen you do!"

"You must not pay attention, then!" Draco hollered back, and rising up, swept down into a fantastic dive. Harry watched him swoop and twist in the air, arching down towards the rocky shore of lake below. But draco hadn't started the dive from high enough up, and if he didn't pull out of the swoop now, he would crash.

"You're never going to make it, you know!" Harry called from up above, out of the way.

Draco looked up at Harry breifly before he looked towards the ground. The broken, jagged ground was lunging up at him. He began to panic. He hadn't pulled up, and he was speeding towards a painful, humiliating fate. He was going to crash, and he was going to hurt and get wet-

That was when harry moved. He made the low dive, air rushing around him in a fury as he dipped lower still. He swept Draco from his broom and onto his own, pulling him as hard as he could while still trying to keep from sending them both into the lake. Draco kicked and squirmed onto the handle, just as the front of his own broom went and lodged itself squarely between two rocks.

Harry really wasn't even sure why he'd done it. He hadn't wanted to see Draco crash, he finally decided, and settled on that one reason in his mind. It had been easy enough, swooping down and plucking Draco up just in the knick of time.

They rose high in the air, leaving Draco's broom and the lake behind. Draco's heart was beating madly in his throat, and he found himself to be trembling just a little. Perhaps it had been the simple sensation of fear followed by that sudden relief, but he clutched his arms around harry's thin waist to keep from falling off anyway, breathing quickly.

Harry was surprised to feel Draco's arms around him, and for just a minute all that he had imagined the night previous rushed back to him in an almost overwhelming wave of desire. With the icy winds stroking his appled cheeks, he closed his eyes and imagined that the feeling of Draco's arms around him was absolutely ordinary...

Harry leaned forward against his broom as they climbed the sky, and Draco let himself lean forward too. He rested his cheek against Harry's back and sighed. Harry had saved him.

Draco could feel the ridge of one shoulderblade through Harry's cloak, smell him through his clothes; feel his warmth. It felt strange to be close to him, Draco thought, momentarily forgetting that he had almost just crashed himself to death. He could have died. Draco warmed his curling fingers in the folds of Harry's cloak, taking comfort in the feel of him. Harry turned to look over his shoulder at Draco and smiled.

After they had leveled off, no longer rising towards the moon, harry breathed, "I told you that you wouldn't make it."

Draco's arms left the Harry's waist all at once, hands clutching themselves around the broomshaft instead. The two of them flew a steady circle around one of the lower Hogwarts towers. Draco didn't answer for a long time.

Harry wondered if Draco felt embarrassed.

"I could have made it." he said smoothly, looking at his nails, which had somehow gotten dirty between the time he'd come outside and when he'd almost crashed. Harry looked over his shoulder at him. The broom itself seemed slower under the weight of two wizards instead of one, but still they rose until they were tracing spheres through the stars, swirling around the highest towers of the castle.

There beside the great flag that bore the Hogwarts crest, was a majestic black and yellow flag. In honor of cedric, Harry realized. It had been enchanted to billow and flap even when there was no breeze so it whipped back and fourth proudly, vibrant colours visible even in the night.

It was a sobering moment, and a silence passed between them. Harry felt absolutely sick as he reminded himself that this was his fault. Cedric was gone forever because of him. "Do you miss him?" Draco asked.

Harry turned to look at the other boy. "I hardly knew him..."

Draco nodded, but didn't answer for a long time. He seemed to be thinking, contemplating something.

He looked towards the flag and kept his eyes there for a long time, before he turned towards Harry and said, softly "..it wasn't your fault, you know."

They had cornered Draco later that night; Millicent Bulstrode and Blaise Zabini, full of venomous accusing words and biting remarks.  
>Draco should have known. Later on, he wondered how he could have been so stupid; assuming that his business was his and no one else's, he wondered how it could have escaped him- Draco, along with many other of the Slytherin students in his year, had been brought into life not only with the aid of dark magic, but with a purpose, as well: bred to be the next generation of Voldemort's followers.<p>

And so, naturally, they would have all been told..

"We know what your doing. We've seen you with him."  
>"So what do you think your doing, Draco?"<br>"Don't act as though you don't know what we're talking about. We all know you've got the dark mark." Blaise said it as if it were an honor, and Draco had been stepping all over it's significance.

"So basically, what we're saying is: if you muck this up, your father isn't going to be the only one you'll have to answer to. Your family is not the only one that could do with the dark lord returning, you know." Millicent made a fist and slugged it into the palm of her other hand with a resonate, meaty clap.

Draco had to think. He had to keep his head in this situation.

"That sounds an awful lot like a threat, Millicent," he said, with more confidence than he felt.

"It is a threat, you cumdumpster," Blaise said. Draco shot him a revolted look and rolled his eyes.

Think.

"You poor, ignorant numbskulls," he began, looking at the two of them. "Had either of you had any brains left at all you'd have realized that I'm just doing my job. The more Harry trusts me, the easier it is for me to bring him to the dark lord. I'm acting the part."

This information took a second or two to sink in. Blaise was looking at Draco with a calculating look, and Millicent looked sated but suspicious.

As he spoke, Draco happened to look up and see someone else lingering in the doorway that lead to the girl's dormitories, keeping close to the shadows. It was Professor Snape and he was listening, gravely.

"I hope your telling the truth, Malfoy. For your own sake."

When Millicent and Blaise finally left him to his own company, Draco had been sitting on his hands to keep from shaking. Things just seemed to get better and better, didn't they? Draco thought ironically. He touched his face nervously, smoothed his hair and took a deep breath. That had been.. nerve-wracking.

The potions master crossed the length of the commons and stood beside his chair. Ihe light in the commons was peculiar, not really light at all but more of a green that fell over everything. Draco looked up at him.

"We never have it easy, do we?" the professor asked, and looked at Draco with a strange, distant expression.

"We? What do you mean?"  
>"Spies, Draco."<p> 


	12. Really

s t i l l saturday - later. much later. sunday morning possibly.

'Dearest Father,'

Draco penned the two words with a condescending flourish, pausing to wet his quill. Professor Snape stood behind him, overseeing this operation with a sour expression.

The revelation that he had become a spy - a real, actual spy, seemed to give Draco a new burst of enthusiasm when it came to doing what Dumbledore had asked, and the potions master found this delight in Draco to be absolutely ridiculous.

'Thanks very much for the fags. I'm writing you to let you know that things are going smoothly here. No one suspects a thing- they're much too stupid to take notice. The sheer idiocy of the people at this school never ceases to astound me. I'm sorry I didn't write you sooner, but I've been rather busy- you understand. Actually, most everyone's gone home for this early holiday nonsence, which has made things very easy for me.

Potter's warming up to me quite nicely, he thinks we're friends.. HA! I wish you could see him. It's disgusting...'

"Aren't you?" Professor Snape asked, a little sarcastically.

Draco set his quill down and looked over his shoulder at the professor. "Aren't I what?"

"His friend?"

"Well, no. Not exactly."

"I see."

"I'm just doing what's needed to be done."

"Mm."

"I am!" Draco insisted. "You act as though I'm enjoying having to do all this. I don't like anything about Harry." He stopped and then added, defensively, "And I'm not his friend."

Professor Snape made no reply.

Of course, this was another lie on Draco's part; he liked lots of things about Harry. He liked the way Harry could be quiet; the fact that they could be together without having to constantly talk in order to fill an awkward silence. He liked the way Harry's hands were thin without being spidery and the way Harry moved them. He also liked the colour of Harry's eyes. And the way he made Draco feel.

"I do believe you're blushing," Snape said, his words forming a very sharp point.

Draco looked down at his letter, lowering his head.

'If I'm going to do this well, I'll need to know the finer details. When, where, how etc, etc.,. When can we talk privately?' He looked up at Snape, seeking some kind of approval. The man nodded.

'Tell mum I love her and write back soon,

Draco.'

He let his quill drop and sat back in his chair, craning his neck to look at Snape. "Send it tonight," Snape said, almost as though he were commanding the boy. He turned to go to bed, taking the candle with him. Draco was left in the dark office without another word.

The climb up to the owlery was a cold one. He had to carry a candle to light his way- Normally, the torches down this chamber would have been lit.. the castle warm, cozy and aflicker with the anticipation of Halloween. His fingers grew numb around the letter and he wished he'd had the sense enough to save a cigarette for himself.

Maybe his father would send him more.. but. he shuddered, repulsed as a whole host of associative memories flashed up in his brain. It was going to be wretched having to see him after what had happened..

And would Lucius be able to spot him? He wondered if his father would be able to see the traitor in his face...

Draco stopped on the stair, candle glowing dimly against the walls.  
>Was he really a traitor at all?<p>

Step by step he climbed the stair until he'd reached the owlery. It wasn't hard to spot his own; it was a handsome barn owl whose feathers kept a marvelous, glowing sheen. It was an ordinary owl, really, with golden eyes that seemed to shine like lamps.

He pulled a small white mouse from his pocket and dangled the wiggling thing unkindly by it's tail. "Hello, Ugly. I've brought something for you," he beckoned, and the owl came to land at the window's ledge. He set the the scurrying thing down on the ledge and watched as Ugly the owl moved in a flash of feathers, seizing the mouse by it's neck. Ugly stood straight as he could and flapped his arms proudly in show before gnashing his beak. The tiny thing died as ugly gnawed it's neck away, munching and grinding at it's bones until they broke with a delightful cracking. Draco couldn't help but laugh, reaching out to pet the owl. "That was wonderful. Absolutely excellent."

After Ugly had picked it's way through the mouse's innards, and sat back to preen his feathers in a satisfied sort of way, draco tied the letter to his gnarled claw with a bit of white leather. "You've got to take this to my father straight away, and I mean fast, Ugly. No nonsense." He patted the owl's head fondly and it set off, tracing a path through the sky until he was gone.

He watched it go, chewing on his chapped lower lip, troubled. So that was it, then. It was settled. Irreversible, he would have to go through with whatever ghastly plan Voldemort had in mind. He looked down at the mouse blankly, raising a hand and flicking it from the window ledge gingerly with a finger.

As he made his way back to the dungeons his mind dashed back and fourth from 'what if' to 'what if' at lightening speed, feeding his fears until they were seven feet tall- so much bigger than himself. His thin fingers tangled with themselves in a worrisome fashion. He felt ill again; sick with a terrible sort of anticipation, a dreadful feeling that somehow everything was all wrong.. and the worst part of it was that he couldn't trace this feeling back to any one thing in particular.

But something was there, hanging over him like a ton of bricks, casting everything he did in shadow.

He let his feet lead him through the winding passageways of the castle, in no particular hurry. His thoughts kept him moving, roaming through hallway and corridor, past quiet, dark classrooms that should have been filled with warm bodies.

Down another corridor and he was passing the portrait of the fat lady slowly.

As draco passed he looked at the snoozing portrait curiously. He'd never been inside, but he knew this was the entrance to the Gryffindor commons. What did they look like, he wondered? His footsteps slowed to a halt and he chewed at his lip.

"Awfully late to be wandering about, isn't it?" the fat lady asked, awakening with a start. She was eyeing Draco up and down skeptically "Thinking of getting inside, are you? well I'll have none of that. You aren't in Gryffindor house!" she waved a huge, painted arm. "Now get! Go on! Out of my corridor!"

Draco looked at her and smiled. He crossed the distance between them and raised a fist, knocking loudly upon her face. The fat lady, appalled, railed fourth a series of protests, scowling. "Hey! You can't do that! You are an insolent, disrespectful boy!"

"Be quiet, you fat old bag."

He kept knocking, and the fat lady was so offended that she could hardly find the words to speak.

"So Harry," George said, sitting back in his chair. On one knee rested a cube of hash, and on the other, a small pipe. they were getting ready to have a smoke before they went to bed.

Harry looked up at him intently.

"What's this about you and Malfoy? Hermione's told us that you went flying with that git."

George stuffed the tiny bit of substance in his pipe and raised it to his lips, lighting it with the tip of his wand. After he'd had his hit, he passed it Fred.

"She said you looked absolutely silly- grinning like a fool."

"You two're getting awfully friendly." he finished.

"You going to smoke, Harry?" Fred asked, exhaling the rich smoke in rings.

"You aren't turning Slytherin on us, are you?"

Harry, flustered, looked away. "He's really not so bad..."

Fred leaned forward to pass him the pipe, and, embarrassment fading, Harry sat forward to accept it. Hash always made him feel as though he were in a dream he could not wake from - his thoughts became surreal and silly, and often times he would end up hiding his face and giggling madly about things he couldn't explain.

He held the smoke in his lungs for as long as he could before he choked and coughed it up in a brilliant puff, which caused Fred and George to laugh madly. Harry could already feel it's potent traces flooding through him, and a steady, silly grin was creeping over his features.

He looked down at the game of wizarding chess in front of him. It was half played, and the pieces were all in a frenzy, shouting rude things back and fourth between them, black chessmen arguing with the white. They didn't like to be ignored, apparently.

Harry watched all this with interest - he'd never seen the pieces fight before, and it was all very fascinating, until -

"Hullo? Are you in there? Answer the bloody door!"

All three young men looked up at one another, and then toward the portrait hole. "Who on earth-"

Fred got up and crossed the room, just as one of George's men began to strangle Fred's knight.

Harry began to laugh as it occurred to him who it probably was. Speak of the devil.

"How DARE you! I'll have you know that i'm a pillar in this school!"  
>Draco rolled his eyes and pounded upon her canvas head with a sturdy fist until finally the painting swung aside.<p>

Fred Weasley poked his head through the portrait hole and looked at Draco with both eyebrows raised, an amused but strangely unsuprised look upon his face.

"er." Draco let his arm drop.

"Yes, Malfoy?"

harry stood up before Draco had a chance to answer the Weasley. "Let him in, fred." he said pleasantly, and Fred turned to look at George, their faces meeting with identical expressions of smirking curiosity.

"Well. Alright then," Fred said, and stepped aside. Draco climbed through the portrait hole none too gracefully and took a look around. It was alot warmer up here, he noticed... nice, really, even if the bright, cheerful atmosphere made his eyes hurt a lot.

"Have a seat." Harry said, and moved his bookbag, which had been taking up space in an empty armchair. Draco came and sat, suddenly feeling as though he shouldn't have come at all. This was going to be awkward. Awkward and uncomfortable, through and through.

Harry smiled at him widely and passed Draco the pipe. "I thought I smelled it," Draco said, and Fred smiled a little. He took a hit and passed it on to George again, who shot a look at fred.

"Didn't know you smoked, Malfoy." Fred said, coolly. Draco grinned and sat back in his chair. "Oh yes," he replied and exhaled the cloud of smoke slowly, feeling that delicious wave wash over him. He felt much better already..

Draco looked at Harry for a minute, taking him in from across the room. He studied Harry's face through the veil of smoke that seemed to hang between them like a vapourous curtain. He looked so happy. Peaceful, sinking into his armchair beside the fire.

The glow and flicker of the flames made him seem darker than usual.. feral, almost. Of course, he reasoned, the hash probably had something to do with all of it, but he felt very fond of Harry suddenly, as though a wave of affection had seized him and softened him up for just a second.

Harry had saved him. And that meant something, didn't it?

Suddenly, Draco knew what it was that had been bothering him.

When the time came, would he really be willing to just give Harry over to Voldemort? To betray him? Harry had become an unexpected friend..

His only friend, maybe.

And he certainly didn't want to lose that.

The pipe was passed around once more before george put it away reluctantly ("got to conserve."), and they sat together in a fairly companionable circle, occasionally laughing at one another before sinking back into contemplative silence. Draco made no cracks about the Weasley's financial state while Fred and George remained coldly polite. Harry was amazed that neither Draco nor the twins tried to start something. everyone seemed a little subdued.

After awhile, George stood up and bid everyone goodnight. He climbed the stairs that lead to the seventh year boy's dorm heavily, and Harry, watching him move until he was out of sight. "Well," said Fred, putting his hands on his knees and standing up slowly. "I guess I ought to be going to bed, too. Tomorrow we've got to get up early.. we're picking up a new bottle of instant scabs down in Hogsmead."

Harry laughed. "Night, then."

When Fred was gone, Draco relaxed considerably and began to chatter, twining his fingers. "I didn't know you would be up this late.. what time do you usually get to bed? er. Sorry about just, you know. dropping in.. but."

"That's okay," Harry said, softly, and Draco stopped. He sank back into his chair, silenced. Harry was looking at him with the strangest expression on his face.

"Can I ask you something?" he asked. Draco looked at him.

"Okay."

Harry had just opened his mouth to speak but before Harry had a chance to ask his question, Draco sat forward and asked, in awe "..is that your Firebolt?"

Harry's heart sank.

He was staring rapturously at the space beneath harry's chair, where the broom was lying by it's servicing kit. He'd brought them down with the intention of busying himself after dinner.

"What? Oh," he looked down towards the handle, jutting out from under his seat.

"That's it."

"..Could I?"

By the time draco had asked, he had already scrambled towards it and was holding it in his two hands. Harry sank back into his chair. "Sure, Draco," he said, and the words were barely a breath at all. He looked out the window, green eyes distant and sad. He wouldn't have been able to really ask him anyway, would he?

The snow was coming down in a steady, gentle fall, adding another layer to the two foot blanket that stretched itself over the landscape.

Draco was talking to him, chatting on about different brooms and where did he get such a great kit?, but Harry wasn't really paying attention. Draco's voice tuned in and out, Harry only catching snatches of him here and there.

"Wow, this is really nice. I have to say, I'm quite surprised... you know Firebolt has this new model out.. they said it's got a lifetime warranty... so if anyone tries to steal it, the antitheft charm causes the cushioning charm to heat up.. their arses get really hot.. it burns them off." Draco laughed.

"Sounds good.." Harry answered faintly.

Draco looked up at him, finally noticing Harry's withdrawl from the conversation.

"Hey," he said, and Harry slowly turned his head to look at Draco. The blond boy was sitting on the floor, stroking the broom in an adoring sort of way. Harry slid out of his seat to sit across the floor from Draco, the firebolt lying like a divider between them. He reached out and ran one finger down Draco's cheek. Draco froze for a minute. "What're you doing, Harry?" he asked, quietly. Despite his question, he turned his head into Harry's palm, so his cheek was cupped in Harry's hand.

He had beautiful hands...

Harry ran a thumb over his cheekbone and Draco's eyes closed. His heart felt bigger, suddenly- stranger and sweeter and just a little bit scary.

Harry watched him, beautiful and pale all over, his lips parted just a little, eyelids like satin. "Really?" Harry asked, just loud enough to be heard between the two of them, and noone else.

A creak from the stair sounded and caused them both to look up, startled. Draco looked horrified when he saw George coming down the stairs, the expression on his face one of pure disbelief. "I.. I left my pipe." he stammered, clearly shocked.

He made a dash across the common room to get it and slipped the thing in pocket. Things suddenly felt unbelievably awkward.

When he was gone, Draco sat straight up and looked at the grandfather clock near the corner. He wouldn't meet Harry's eyes. "I'd better go. It's getting very late.. and I've got to get some rest."

"Right," Harry said. His hand had long dropped and it rested limply where it'd landed.

"So I guess I'll see you." Draco said.

"Right."

"Harry."

"What?" he asked, looking up at him.

"..Really." he answered, and left it at that, with Harry sitting there on the floor.

Before the potions master went to bed that night, he checked his brew, stirring it encouragingly. It had developed a nice, foamy head, which meant that it was coming along nicely. It was finished already- now came the fermentation. It was truly an effort.

The cauldron had to be kept warm, but not over a fire, and it had to be stirred counterclockwise only. However- these were simple tasks, easily remembered and easily done.

After he took off the heavy iron handle, setting it on the stone floor with a healthy clang to rock the late night quiet, he waved away the fumes and began to tended to the potion. He had a tiny taste, frowning at it's sour flavour. Maybe he could add something to make it taste a bit more acceptable. Checking the temperature, the consistency, and the colour, he found everything to be perfect.

Dipping a ladle into the strange broth, he poured a bit in a bottle and set it on one of his shelves for a rainy day. He wanted to add a bit of cowflower and make it into a sedative.

When he was finished he wiped his hands on a rag and smiled.

Absolutely perfect.  
> <p>


	13. Attack!

monday morning, hogwarts

Albus woke up that morning with a start. He had dreamed strange dreams the night previous, undefined chaos invading his slumber like an enemy. Needless to say, it had left him feeling terribly unsettled as he shuffled his old slippered feet down the stairs and sat himself down at his desk, still wearing his striped pajamas and ridiculously long nightcap.

He picked up his favourite quill and began to write a letter, asking the minister of magic up for tea. They had much to say, and it needed to said as soon as humanly possible.

When the note was written and sent along on it's way, he dressed and went to breakfast, leaving his window open in hopes that by lunch, he could expect company. But he just couldn't shake that feeling, as he ate breakfast with the staff and other students.

Something was coming.

Harry had seated himself around the table with the rest of the remaining Hogwarts occupants, tired and still fuzzy from last night's hash. He didn't feel up to par, and his scar ached dully, which worried him.

Days played out before him like a strange, sad song on the radio. Rubbing at the line of tissue than ran down his forehead, he looked round the table. Along with the staff, there were about fifty students all together who had chosen to remain at hogwarts, and they all waited for their morning meal to begin in silence.

The other three tables were pushed against the wall (as there were no students to fill them), and the great hall seemed a vacant expanse, full of echoes and shuffles.

Harry looked at Fred and George, who were sitting across from him. They whispered into one another's ears secretly, keeping their conversation between the two of them. Their gazes followed someone, two sets of brown eyes alert and watchful. He could hear footsteps crossing the great hall and Harry didn't have to be a genius to figure who it was. The only person who had yet to come to breakfast was Draco, and something in his chest leapt apprehensively when he realized that the only empty chair left was the one directly to his right side.

When Draco slid into the seat beside him, looking around the table at everyone but Harry, food filled their plates and everyone began to eat, few words spoken. Harry kept his eyes on his breakfast, swallowing his food with effort.

He found he couldn't look at Draco- last night he had been asking Draco a question with his eyes, with that finger that had run down Draco's cheek, and Draco had responded exactly as Harry had hoped, but.. had Draco known what he'd meant?

His hand shook a bit as he raised a spoonful of honeyed, buttered porridge to his mouth and choked it down willfully.

What if it had all been some kind a fluke, a misunderstanding?

Draco shifted beside Harry and he felt the warmth of someone's knee against his own, almost nudging him. Harry looked up, startled, to meet a pair of friendly, gray eyes. "G'morning, Harry."

"Morning." Harry didn't realize it, but he was blushing terribly.

It was much easier to eat after he'd looked away.

Less than five minutes into the meal, Dumbledore set down his spoon and dabbed at his withered lips with a linen.

"I cannot bear this quiet a moment longer," He said, and everyone looked up from their bowls, attentive. "You all are the glummest bunch I've seen in many, many years." He smiled at everyone. "That is why I've decided to cancel all today's classes. You will be allowed to do whatever you like." He looked at Fred and George, and added, warmly "Within reason, of course. I think we could all do with a bit of a break."

This seemed to cheer everyone up considerably, but before he could say any more, the beating of strong, fierce wings was heard and a small fleet of owls made their descent upon the table. Ugly pecked at Draco's porridge as he tried to get the note off it's talon. "God damnit, Ugly. Stand. still!" Ugly ate half his sausage and ravaged his muffin.

Draco unfolded the parchment and read

'When your finished- I'm waiting'

He swallowed and looked at Harry, chest filling up with dread. For a minute he wished he could tell Harry everything, but the desire passed quickly and left only a strange ache that lingered longer than he would have liked.

Down the table, other students were feeding and stroking their owls, Dumbledore included. Hermione seemed to be unwrapping a care package from her mum. She pulled a long tube of toothpaste out of the box, sighed, and stuck it in her pocket. Fred and George had gotten a letter from their mum, which raised their eyebrows and earned a new set of whispers that passed back and forth between them.

Harry watched everyone with interest. He didn't have any mail that morning, and made a mental note to write Ron.

When breakfast was over, Draco felt such dread that he thought he was going to be sick. He had to brace himself against the wall, as he made his way down the spiraling staircase that lead into the Slytherin dungeons. his arm burned and ached, like it was raging in his skin. By the time he vomited he was lucky enough to have already reached the safety and privacy of the Slytherin commons.

It bubbled up his throat and he had to cover his mouth to keep it in- it felt warm and thick against his palm. He reached for the waste paper basket and bent over it miserably, chucking up his breakfast (sans ribcage, this time), no less than fifteen minutes after it'd been swallowed.

"Drinking this early into the school year? I swear, Draco, you grow more and more like your mother every day."

Draco whirled around, wiping his mouth.

His father's head was positioned in the fireplace, looking at him ominously from across the room.

"Ginny's coming back to hogwarts?" Hermione asked, curious. She and Harry shared a look between them.

Fred nodded. "S'what the letter says." George handed it to Hermione and Harry peered over her shoulder, reading.

'Ginny says that after everything, she doesn't feel safe. She wants to come back to school- even wrote to Dumbledore himself. She'll be there just after Halloween and I want you two to keep an eye on her, she hasn't been herself lately and I'm worried for her.'

Hermione handed Fred and George their letter back and looked at Harry. Silently, they agreed that it seemed a little funny.

"You said you'd befriended him? And he believes you? That's excellent."

"Tell me your proud of me-"

A shuffling of fabric sounded and professor Snape rounded the corner. "I need your assistance in something."

Lucius' eyes flickered upwards and his face suddenly became very cool, composed. When the potions master had it made it to the center of the room, he'd already laid eyes on Lucius. "Oh. I see." Severus said, loathingly, and turned to go back the way he'd come.

"Oh so now your getting friendly with him?" Lucius asked, looking at Draco with distaste.

"No." Draco answered, shaking his head.

"Then why, praytell, are you assisting him?"

"He is the head of Slytherin house, father." Draco said delicately. In light of recent events, Draco found himself preferring Professor Snape's company over his father's.

"Severus Snape is a sniveling shit."

Draco gaped.

"He ran under Dumbledore's dress and hid from the dark lord! Because he betrayed his master! he abandoned our cause AND the brethren! He is a traitor, Draco. And that was how his teaching position as master of Slytherin house head came about.. don't you know? He's not at hogwarts because he wants to be! He's there because he's a COWARD!"

Lucius yelled the last word cuttingly, and it echoed through the commons and out into the slytherin dengeons, so Severus was sure to hear it. Draco flinched.

"Let's go outside." Fred said longingly, as he looked out the window. In light of the day's classes being canceled, George had declared it 'lay around and smoke more hash' day.

When Hermione asked why they smoked it in the first place, Fred claimed that it "helped them think more clearly," and George nodded solemnly.

"It really helps you think think clearly, Fred?" she asked, frowning. "Because from what I've seen, it doesn't seem to do you a bit of good."

"Do you want to try it?"

"..What will it do to me? No! Of course I don't want to try it."

Fred passed her the pipe, smiling.

"All that's left after that is the matter of you bringing us Potter."

Draco opened his mouth to speak and stopped. The flames of the fire licked at his father's composed hair, his weary face. Draco was growing aggravated. For all his father's careful planning and mad, conspiring attention to detail, he still hadn't told Draco how he was supposed to get Harry to Voldemort.

"Right. And just exactly how am I to do this when you won't tell me what I'm supposed to do?" Draco asked. He tried to suppress the tones of irritation in his voice, but they were still prevalent, and more biting than he had intended. He knew he was treading on thin ice with Lucius.

Lucius sighed and cocked his head, looking at his son with something undefinable in his eyes. Distaste, maybe. Draco didn't know. He didn't care.

"We've been making a series of attempts to connect a room.. a point of transportation, if you will, to another room somewhere in the castle." Lucius explained. Draco thought about this for a minute. He'd heard of something akin to what his father was trying to explain. Draco knew that some branches of the ministry were spread all throughout the countryside; for example- a mail room might be in Kent, but the mail room would linked up to another room in Cokeworth, until all these single rooms formed a sort of network. It was a useful trick, and practical, as well. It made things harder to trace.. almost impossible to detect.

"Is that even possible? I mean, really. Hogwarts is so protected that-"

"Of course it's possible," Lucius snapped. Draco held his tongue and looked apprehensively around the common room. It was empty, but that didn't mean that there weren't wandering ears lurking about.. waiting.. listening..

Desperate to get out of the conversation, he glanced at the clock. "I'm late. If I don't go now, someone'll come looking for me..." he stood up and looked at Lucius, who was eyeing him up and down curiously. "Mm," his father answered.

"Well.." Draco shifted his weight from one foot to the other, his poor twitterpated fingers picking at the badge on his sweater.

"I'll write." Lucius said, shortly.

Draco nodded and turned to go before his father called his name again, luring him back into conversation. "I think you'll be quite pleased. We've got a special surprise in store," he promised, nastily.

He smiled and Draco smiled back, weakly, before his father's head disappeared with a familiar pop.

Sick with a case of deeply unsettled nerves, Draco made his way, swift and silent, out of the dungeons.

"I have to do my homework." Hermione stood up. Then she sat down again.

"No. I have time." She stood up again. "No.. I really should get that done.."

Fred and George found this hysterical.

Hermione sat down once more and laughed apprehensively. "I'm not sure I like this.."

"It's okay, Hermione." Harry assured her. "Just relax. What was it that you said erlier, Fred? About going outside?"

Fred nodded. "Let's go outside." George said, and stood up. "Are you coming?" Harry looked at Hermione and raised his eyebrows, grinning madly.

Hermione stood up and went to get her cloak.

"He said he was trying to link a room in Hogwarts up to their network?" Dumbledore asked, running his fingers through his beard. "I wonder which room.." he trailed off, pondering to himself.

After a moment he looked at draco, changing the subject. "Does Harry know you've got the dark mark?"

Draco nodded. Liar liar. "My father said something else, Professor. He said that we should expect something soon. I don't know what- he wouldn't say. Usually he tells me everything." Draco seemed distressed at this.

Just then there was a knock at the door and Mr. Fudge, Minister of magic, came in. "Hope I'm not interrupting anything.. I'm a little early," he said, and took off his lime green hat. He rubbed at his balding head, looking uneasily from Draco to Dumbledore.

Dumbledore cleared his throat and nodded. "We can continue this discussion later," he said, and Draco stood. "Right. I'd better go."

When Draco had gone, the minister seated himself in what formerly been Draco's chair and looked at Dumbledore.

"Now what's this urgent business you had to speak with me about?" he asked. "The ministry's a mess.. absolute chaos. We've been trying to get everything in order..."

Coming down the stairs, Draco ran into Harry. His cheeks were flushed and red, and he looked as though he'd just been in a rather extreme snowball fight. Flakes clung, melting, to his hair and eyelashes. Harry's eyeslashes were very long, Draco noticed.

"Where were you? You should've been outside. There's a huge snowball fight going on outside." Harry grinned. "Fred and George got snape."

Draco smiled. "Why'd you come inside, then? I was just talking to Dumbledore, but the minister of magic's with him now so if you were going to see him, don't bother."

"Oh." harry winced, and rubbed at his forehead with a cold, gloved hand.

"What's wrong?" Draco asked, interestedly.

Harry hesitated in telling draco the truth. "My scar hurts.." he finally admitted, scowling.

"Does that ..mean something?" Draco asked, curiously. "Is that unusual? Are you alright? You aren't going to.. faint or pass out or go into convulsions or anything.. are you?"

Right before the minister of magic had a chance to tell Dumbledore more about what Ms. Betsey Belle had to say when her armchair tried to eat her, the flames in the fireplace roared and turned a brilliant green. The head of a young, stressed looking ministry offical was there, looking at Dumbledore wildly.

"Something's happened! Death eaters! The ministry's been.. been attacked. There are dementors everywhere.. you've got to help us... Oh god. I've got to go. Send help! DO SOMETHING!"

Fudge stood up, anxious at once. "I'm on my way."

With a signature pop, the young man was gone. Fudge turned to look at Dumbledore. His old face was sad, as if his timeless heart were breaking.

"Oh, Albus." he said, quietly, disbelieving. "What do I do?"

After a confirmation arrived by owl, Dumbledore announced the news at lunch. McGonagall brought in a wizarding wireless and they listened in horrified silence as the androgynous voice brought them the latest information on what had happened. Apparently, from what Harry could make of things, a band of death eaters (along with three giants and atleast a hundred dementors), stormed the ministry of magic headquarters, killing and torturing atleast 2,000 witches and wizards.

"You're right, Magda. It truly has begun. For those you who're just tuning in, we've got breaking news. Death eaters, who's numbers have risen in recent months, stormed the Ministry of Magic today shortly before lunch. According to ministry officials, we've got hundreds of witches and wizards missing, still within the building..."

Harry couldn't believe it. He didn't want to believe it- that all their fears.. their worries had been proven horribly true. Between the panic stricken eye witness accounts that sounded through the speakers of the wireless and the loud crying of a hufflepuff second year who claimed that she wanted her mum, Harry could hardly think straight.

"...and he put his wand to my head and told me that.. that if I didn't join with You-Know-Who that I would die.." the woman's voice became a hysterical sob that crackled over the wireless network.

"...hundreds dead.. ministry authorities say that they apparated from the scene twenty minutes after the carnage began ... We've now got reports that several men saw three death eaters coming into the cafeteria... The international department destroyed.."

Two hours later, professor Flitwick switched the wireless off.

Dumbledore gave them a long talking to, but he was sure that little of it had sunk in. Out the windows, owls could be seen flying back and fourth all over the afternoon sky.

Harry's scar hurt worse than ever.

The two of them sat together at a table, hidden away in the back corner of the library, where they could talk as loudly as they liked without Madam Pince hearing them. Their homework was spread out in a collective, random dissaray- parchments, quills, books and candles all littered the glossy tabletop.

Doing his homework with Draco was much different from doing his homework with Ron and Hermione in the fact that Harry hadn't seemed to get anything done. They chatted back and fourth between themselves more than they studied, and just when one of them would go to write something down, the other would speak again, and a whole new section of their conversation would begin.

"You look sad." Draco said.

"Aren't you sad?" Harry asked, looking at Draco.

Draco turned his eyes towards his paper. They didn't say anything for a long time.

"I wish I'd known this was going to happen." Harry breathed, finally.

"Me too," Draco agreed. "You'd have been able to do something about it, then."

Harry wondered what draco meant by that, but he let it go. "Mr. Weasley works at the ministry." Harry said, quietly. He suddenly missed Ron very much.

Draco decided to tell harry that he'd talked to Lucius. "I talked to my father this morning, after breakfast.." he said, slowly. "He said to expect something big.. god." he scowled, disgusted. "I think I loathe him."

"I think I loathe him, too." Harry confessed. Draco smiled halfheartedly.

"Do you like Dumbledore?" Harry inquired, curiously. He tapped his quill against his homework, and got ink all over the parchment.

Draco was thoughtfully silent. "I'm not especially fond of him," he said, honestly. "but if I want to help.. you know.. stop things, he's the person to go to. I don't want to spend my life serving Voldemort. That's just ridiculous."

Harry nodded, a little surprised.

After another interval of silence, Harry looked at Draco over the candles that rested here and there, providing light. The sky was darkening outside.

Draco looked at him and said, timidly. "I can't believe that this has happened." He breathed. "Actually, I can believe it. That's the terrible part.. I just."

Harry looked at him. Draco paused and started over. "Growing up, you know, my father always used to tell me that someday Voldemort would rise again. He talked about it as thought it were a revolution. Like it was some fantastic thing... and I always thought I wanted to be a part of it, like it was important. but it really isn't, is it? Not really."

Harry sat, thinking about all this.

"Tell me a secret," Harry said suddenly.

Draco looked at him. "What kind of secret?"

"Any kind."

"Alright. but you've got to tell me one too, then. And you've got to go first."

"Sometimes I wish Voldemort had killed me, too. Along with my mum and dad." Harry spoke automatically, as though he'd been waiting to say it aloud- waiting to tell someone.

"Really?"

Harry nodded. He had an expectant look on his face, like Draco was about to reveal something important.

"Do you remember when we first met? In the robes shop?"

Harry nodded. "I knew who you were." Draco confessed. "..I wanted you and I to be friends. That's why I came into your carriage that time.."

"If you wanted to be friends, why did you act so horrible, then? You were a brat."

Draco shrugged, helplessly. He felt his cheeks burning.

After a moment of letting it hang in the air, Harry changed the subject. "do you think your father was there today?"

"I know he was." Draco said unhappily.

"I thought you'd turn out like him."

"So did I."

"...But I'm glad you didn't.."

monday evening- the burrow.

When the two men from the ministry had knocked on the front door, Ginny had been upstairs, packing her trunk. She didn't feel much of anything about what had happened that day- a twinge of concern for her father, a wondering about her older brother Percy.

She had other preoccupations.

It was her mother's voice that drew her downstairs. A high, kneeing wail sounded, followed by shrill sobs that were heavy with grievance she knew something was wrong when she heard that cry, and dropped her dress that she had been packing.

The sound of her mother's voice drew her down the narrow stair, one sick-feeling step at a time. She felt surreal, as if none of this could really be happening. The feeling stayed as she came through the kitchen and into the cozy den. The voice over the wireless had been turned low, so it was an indiscernible source of noise in the background. Two ministry officials stood by her mother's chair, leaning over her- trying to console her. Ron looked paler than she'd ever seen him. She took a timid seat beside him.

"Oh god, Arthur.."

Molly wept, covering her wet face with two hands. She wailed again, shaking.

"ARTHUR!..."  
> <p>


	14. Blue Toast

wednesday - all hallowes eve

It was a drizzling, miserable, glaring, gray day.

Mrs. Weasley stayed in bed that morning, and because of this the house was silent; familiar rooms looked sad and shabby with the lights out, and the hearth was a dark hole in the wall, empty and strangely cavernous without a friendly fire to light it. Every hour Molly called to ron, asking what the clock said. Arthur's hand hadn't moved off 'danger' for even an instant since monday.

Ginny's trunk and bags were by the front door when ron had come downstairs that morning, as if she had put them there the night before in anticipation of her departure. It made ron feel sick and creepy to see them there like that, stacked so nicely- just waiting to go.

No one opened the curtains.

Or made breakfast, for that matter. Ron had stood over his cold, sad bread, cursing and muttering all kinds of spells, trying to toast the damn things.  
>"Oh whatn' bloody.." his wand had sputtered bright sparks and they showered to the floor, burning tiny holes in the faded carpet.<p>

His bread had turned a very bright blue. ginny looked up from her bag, so stuffed full of crumpled parchments that she was having trouble latching the wretch thing shut, and gave Ron a withering look.

"Well? It won't toast!"

She rolled her eyes and aimed at her wand at ron's toast. "Adustum."

Ron ate his blue toast in resentful silence.

Eventually, Mrs. Weasley called Ginny a cab from her room, but did not go with her to the station. At her command, Ron went instead, but neither brother nor sister said much on the way. The drive was quiet and uneventful blue. When the cab pulled up outside the station, Ron looked very pale, very hurt. After he'd helped her heave her trunk onto the sidewalk, he kissed her cheek and gave her a letter that was 'for Harry's eyes and not yours, you sneaking girl..'

Despite his words, he smiled a little and thumped her on her shoulder.

"I'll give it to him," she promised. Things hushed over them for a minute.

"I don't think you should go, Ginny," he blurted out intimately, leaning out the car window. "You should stay home. Mum needs us. How do you think she feels? Dad's missing. They think he's dead. And you know how upset she was with Fred and George, for not coming home. They aren't even speaking!"

"Ron!" she said, a bit shrilly. she clenched her fists a little, looking at him. "I am perfectly aware of all that!" she sighed, composing herself. "..Don't you think I'm scared, too? I don't feel safe anywhere but at Hogwarts. I have to follow my own conscience, that's what Mum told me. Besides, Dumbledore's thinking of bringing everyone up to Hogwarts anyway."

"How do you know?" His eyebrows were lowered, distrusting. It was as though Ginny weren't concerned at all!

"Mum told me. She owled him."

"What else di-"

She looked at her watch. "Ron, time. I've got to go."

He sat back in his seat. As the cab drove off down the wet streets he called out, 'Bye, Ginny!', but he looked sad when he turned round to wave at her through the window.

And that was it. She was alone.  
>She would miss her brother, of course, but she couldn't deny herself the relief she felt once he was gone. It had been so easy, slipping through that barrier without a backwards glace, and onto platform 9 and 34. There was noone to hinder her, noone to hold her up. She sort of liked this strange feeling that had come over her.

This... independence she had suddenly obtained. She ceased to be a mousy fourth year, younger sister to a score of perfect older brothers. She could be anyone she wanted.

It was really the first time that she'd ever done anything important by herself. Living in a family with six other people made privacy novel; a bit of quiet time was worth more than all the galleons in the world.

Well.. almost.

Ron watched the world go by in a wash of gray rain like tears down the thick glass of the cab's windows, wondering why muggles never wore real colours; they always seemed to prefer gray or black or blue or white or creme.. he pausued, eyes jarred by a high voltage shock passing him by. Moving among the many hue-less parasols was one bright yellow umbrella. He smiled a little, wishing Harry could have been there to see.

He thought about his letter to Harry- in particular, the reason he'd written it in the first place. Fred and Geroge had written him with a bit of absolutely disturbing news. Harry and Malfoy were getting chummy, and that wasn't even the wrost of it. The twins had said they'd gone flying together, and that George had caught them sitting by the fire together, touching each other.

Ron shuddered again, recalling that first pang of initial horror. At first he'd thought the letter was a joke- the twins were always trying to trick him into something.. but something about the tone of this letter said that it was not to be discounted.

As if things couldn't get any worse, he thought, sulking... his father was missing, his mother was inconsolable, and his very best friend had forgotten all about him in order to spend time with the nastiest prick in all of hogwarts; ratfaced, shitbreathed Malfoy.

For Ginny, the train ride itself was a fairly quiet one. The platform had been nearly empty- among the few tired souls who used the Hogwarts express to get from London to Hogsmead, Ginny noticed a great black dog, whom she petted and fed a bit of her pumpkin pasty to. It laid it's great head on her knee and sighed, resting there for a second before it trotted off again- looking for someone else to feed him, she assumed.

She still couldn't believe what had happened. What troubled her most was that she didn't feel.. angry sad upset hurt broken frightened..

Anything.

Somewhere, buried deep in her, was the quiet truth that her father was alright. He was perfectly fine, somewhere. This knowledge was so strong and so calm that she dared not question it.

Hermione sat in the Gryffindor common room, struggling to complete her homework. It was a nice distraction, she realized, as she put the finishing touches on a paper due in muggle studies.

Across the room, Fred and George sat side by side in one great armchair, fred picking at his hangnails, george biting at the inside of his thumb. Harry had stretched himself lifelessly across the only couch in the common room, and hadn't moved since he'd come back from breakfast.

The fire in the common room was weak, over-powered by the window that Fred and George insisted be left open. Waiting restlessly for news of their father, their eyes darted every few minutes to the skies outside, scanning for the sight of a familiar owl.

For Harry, the shock of what had happened was beginning to wear off. He felt trapped in anxious greif, sick and suspended weightless in uncertainty- not unlike the twins. But Harry's troubled thoughts included an entirely different set of circumstances- ones that went beyond Arthur Weasley and the Ministry of Magic. He was thinking of Dumbledore, of Voldemort and Lucius Malfoy; of what would come next and of Draco, too. Struggling with his contemplations, he tried to reason how he would fit into everything.

That morning at breakfast, Dumbledore had encouraged them all to share their thoughts, fears and feelings, but back in the Gryffindor commons, nobody seemed to want to talk.

While Fred and George sat in silence, Hermione kept starting her transfiguration essay, but every time she got about a paragraph or so in, her mind would wander off and she'd get ink spots all across the page. One parchment was covered almost entirely in little swirly patterns, her hand moving the quill distantly across the page as her misty eyes stared on forever at nothing in particular.

She missed Ron.

Voldemort sat back in his chair and sighed. The snow reminded him of times gone forever.

The room around him was cold and he cut his eyes towards the door, irritated, as though he were waiting for the arrival of someone. The entire building was cold, with leaking roofs and rotting floors. The structure had an opressive, upsetting air about it, a sense that sick things had happened there once, long long ago.

Rumors circulated throughout the bretheren that it had once been a sort of orphanage durring the last world war- or atleast, a home for children who were severely disturbed and could not be properly maintained in mainstream society; undoubtedly, the place where Tom had spent most of his childhood.

...it was the only place he had left to go.

"Sie dort. Sie schauen kalt."

"Gerade ein bit."

"Haben sie einen platz erhalten, um die nacht zu verbringen? Sie wird keinen w rmer nicht in diesem wetter erhalten." The young man kicked distastefully at the drift of snow that had bilt up on the curb.

The dark haired man smiled. "Ich kann einen platz finden, um ihn zu bleiben bin gut, dank."

"Meine schwester und ich haben einen raum im burgdorf. Wir w rden nicht um uns die firma k mmern.."

"Ist die eine einladung?" The dark haired man raised an eyebrow almost quizically.

"Angegangen lassen sie uns sie aus dem Schnee herausbekommen."

After that, the night had gone by in a drunken flash of naked skin and voices that twisted like bodies, cries rising into the night...

The pale of the world is finally seeping through the layers of ruffled lace that hang, powdery and stiff, over the window. It is old lace; yellowed from twenty years of nicotine wafting through it, out into the street below. Outside, the first bells of morning ring out across the war-ruined city, and they lift into the deep blue sunrise sky.

The thin boy is already awake.

He's been waiting for this pale- praying to it.

Despite the early morning hours, a piano sounds throughout the building; a sign that he is not the only one not to have slept. It's sad, this tune.. lilting melody and it's lover, the melancholy voice.. traveling through heating ducts and holes in the floors to greet his ears. What a fatalistic little waltz this is, with it's minor notes and common time. Almost apropriate, considering..

He listens from his place on the edge of the bed, not moving, save for his roaming eyes. They comb the room, taking everything in just as it is. He wants to remember this moment for as long as he can.. to be able to recall the feeling of the winter breeze abusing his bare skin with it's cold, formless fingers.. the sight of his two companions, ruined upon the floor. Their naked, lifeless skin is perfect and smooth, and it matches the colour of the bedsheets almost exactly. Such a pale colour. He likes that kind of continuity in life, that wonderful synchronisity.

Will he be able to remember this room and this morning as well as he can remember other things? He remembers school, which, dispite being two years behind him, is still fresh in his mind. He also remembers why he left. He had been a different person then, and that is why he had to go away; to leave that person behind. Tom Riddle, as far as he is concered, is dead.

He is someone else now, lost in a process of transformation that will eventually lead him to the identity he so desprately seeks: Lord Voldemort.

The idea had first seized him sometime durring the early stages of his education at Hogwarts school of witchcraft and wizardry. The boy he had been, so thin and brilliant and so secretly wicked, had not been enough for him. Tom wants to shake from him the very things that made him human. Conscience is an irritant, a simple setback that he is sure he can overcome; regret? a waste of precious time.

Tom has always known that the purest form of his personal genius can only emerge in him if it is brought fourth by a meticulous, systematic disorganization of the sences. Of course, this is a very dangerous game for Tom to be playing with himself, for Tom knows perfectly well that he is toying with far darker things than he should be.

He is leading himself down a path of absolute maelevolence, peppered with random acts of brutality and violence.

Not that he cares. Tom laughs, a low self satisfied snicker, and his head rolls back on his neck with drunken, swanlike grace. Every move he makes is deliberate, calculated, and with reason. It pleases him to know that when he thinks he's reached the darkest places in himself, he always finds he can press a little farther, finding something else that's just a bit more horiffic than what had come before.

..He wants this. He wants to be sleek.. serpentine. Venemous and poision, he will rise to his birthright, grasping the privildge promised to him through blood: heir of Slytherin.

Tom wants to be greater than Grindelwald.

In his travels, he eventually slips away from the wizarding world all together. It is easier this way- Tom can practice the sort of magic he likes without having to answer to anyone at all. There are no suspicious, meddling fools to get in the way of Tom mastering his arts. This is not a permanent thing, of course, this relocation. He has every intention of returning to the wizarding world, but there is something about muggle life that appeals to him, something that is very nessicary to his transformation:

it keeps him angry.

And he is, afterall, superior to them- he posesses the knowledge of everything they deem to be imaginary, and that in itself is an infinite power. He likes to pass down the crowded muggle streets with this in mind- it makes him feel good...

Even as a child Tom knew that somehow he did not belong to the world of practicality and manners, never having been a child born of the ordinary. He was not like them, and they knew it just as well as he did...

They didn't like him much.

At night he would lie awake in his institutional little bed and stare up at the dirtygrand London skyline, ruined by the war, and think that somewhere in the world there were others that felt the same as he did. There were few friends in those days...

Charlie slid into bed beside Tom, shivering. He was younger than tom, a silly, spindly thing who's pajamas never quite fit because he was simply too tall; the cuffs of the pants went to the middle of his shins, sleeves falling halfway between his elbows and his wrists.

"Is it true?" he asked in a heartbroken whisper, looking at his friend through the darkness. "Everyone's saying that your going away..."

Tom nodded reluctanty- he hated to admit it to Charlie; dreaded seeing the way his friend's familiar, cheerful face would fall at the news.

The boy looked taken aback.. shocked. And most of all, hurt.

"But, why?" he asked, quietly.

From somewhere down towards the other end of the room, one of the older boys was sitting straight up in his bed, glaring at them feircely.

"Would you two SHUT it, PLEASE?"

They turned back to look at once another, and the smaller boy asked again, his voice hushed, "What for?"  
>Tom averted his eyes. He'd made an agreement with the head of the orphange not to tell anyone where he was really going- and so they'd decided that, when someone asked, a rich relative had 'decided to pay for Tom to be educated at a private boy's school near cornwall'.<p>

"I got accepted to a private school. I'll be there from September untill June. Now, don't get all silly on me. I'll be back this summer."

The younger boy looked at him with a great ammount of suspicion in his eyes.

"You promise your coming back?"

"Of course I promise."

"You're my only friend." he confessed, quietly. "And because of Walter! You remember Walter, don't you? Don't you, Tom?"

"Yes, I remember Walter," Tom said, rolling his eyes.

"Walter didn't come back and he promised, too."

"I'm coming back!" he assured, loud enough for some of the older boys to 'ssssh' him from the other end of the hall.

Charlie wasn't there when he returned.

Tom misses the wizarding world, at times so much that he thinks of giving up and simply going home, but this is a small temptation compared to what lies in store for him.

Sunlight, brittle and weak, is beginning to filter in through the window, casting the room in a sweet, almost golden glow. For the first time in sixteen hours, Tom stretches, allowing movement to flood his limbs. He grabs for his wand and looks at the corpses on the floor.

He raises his hand and, with a jerk of the wrist, the male corpse sits up, it's head rolling emptily upon it's long neck. It's easy. Too easy, almost. He hardly ever has to say the spells anymore. Somehow he.. can think them loud enough..

The corpses' arms and legs seem to come alive as it sits there upon the floor with it's puffy fingers twitching.

Everything is quiet.

Another whirl of the wrist and both bodies twist up from the floor, limp limbs flying out violently. They begin to wriggle about the room in a kind of dance. Their bodies undulate unsteadily, as though they're just learning to walk. They dip and jangle and slump wildly, frantic movement unalive.

The whole effect really is quite breath-taking, the way they mimic life at the direction of his wand... he jerks them back and fourth, trying to make them walk with their cold white feet mashing into the floor at bone breaking angles. The magic makes them move too fast.. it doesn't look right, he decides. They're too... floppy.

They aren't even alive anymore.

This bothers him - this matter of living things versus what happens to them once he takes that life away... simply enchanting something to immitate life isn't really good enough, now, is it?

He had mastered that early on.. and it had grown old.

Of all he knows about life and death, he has never heard of a way to.. bring it back. The magic of the dead is a tricky science - something he's been especially interested in, recently. It seems as if life and death, however intimately interwoven, are infact, two separeate experiences.

Searching his mind, he distinctly recalls a passage from a small volume he'd had in school. It was a drab little book, very inconspicuous and friendly looking - untill you opened it up and read it. It was a manifesto on evil, written by a young, radical wizard in the roaring twenties. Tom closes his eyes and lets the words roll from his tongue, passage comminted to memory long ago.

"Evil is not merely shadows and killers and the myth of muggle goblins. Evil is a heart of darkness and the colours that spread out from it like veins; seductive, inviting.. vibrant. Mimicing the very life it destroys. Evil is a smile in the dark, a 'safe' companion in a sea of cold strangers. Evil is a friendly hand, pulling you up.. showing you it's lovely face just long enough to win you over.."

Mimicing the very life it destroys.

He scowls and lets the things drop to the floor; discarded amusements, like toys belonging to a spoiled child who's just gotten something better.

Perhaps.. the key is not in the magic of death, but rather.. life. Tom knows there is life inducing magic.. even medical magic has restorative power. The regeneration of bone, blood, and cells can all be induced with the flick of a wand. He makes a mental note to check on this, this chemical balance of dead magic and living magic.. If the two were brought together properly, it might even be possible to.. reanimate somthing. Sighing, Tom stands and begins to dubious search for his clothes...

There was a curteous knock and a young man came in, closing the door behind him. The ancient, frosted glass rattled in it's unsteady pane.

"You wanted to see me, my lord?" he asked, somewhat timidly, wringing his fingers into anxious tangle.

"Sit down," Voldemort said. The young man sat obediently, and his restless hands settled, folded in his lap.

"You are aware that the snow has set us weeks behind." he stated, and the young man nodded, unsure of how to act in the dark lord's presence. "To add to this upsettance, my body is dying." He stated this matter-of-factly, clearing his throat.

"What little blood I was able to recieve in the ceremony wasn't at all enough, and if you don't do something soon, there will be a heavy, heavy price to pay."

"What.. should I do, my lord?"

"That's just the thing... I'm entrusting you to decide." he said, nastily, and dismissed him.

Percy Weasley stood and bowed deeply to Voldemort before he left the room, trembling. He had a set of wracking nerves that went so deep his bones jangled, and being around Voldemort didn't help him in the least. He passed down the icy corridor, with it's grimy happyyellow paint, chewing at his chapped lips.

He feared there wasn't much he could do. There wasn't any such spell that could do what Voldemort was really asking for... he swallowed and turned, heading down a deep stairwell that twisted and turned and coiled like a secret. When he finally reached his destination, he gave him name to the guard, passing room after room, each alike beneath sallow electric light.

He rounded a corner, already able to hear his father yelling. The sound of it made Percy feel heavy and hurt, as though he'd made a terrible mistake. As he neared, Arthur's cries grew more intelligable; he roared to be let out, to be told just what was going on, demanding to know where he was. When Percy reached his door, he turned the knob with a sick swallow. It clicked open and Mr. Weasley grew silent.

"Percy."

"You've got to forgive me, father." he whispered, closing the door behind him carefully. "Believe me, please believe me. You're here for your own safe keeping... I know it sounds ridiculous, but you. You've just got to believe me.."

"Oh, Percy." Arthur said sadly, as the reality of what was happening began to sink in. He looked dissapointed, unable to look at his first born son.

"WHAT the HELL were you THINKING?" he erupted suddenly. He went from dissapointment to anger so quick that Percy could hardly catch up.

"Now.. just stay calm.." he said, hands raised in a gesture of quiet. He kept his voice low when he spoke. "Please, you've just got to trust me." Percy pleaded, upset.

"TRUST YOU? how am I SUPPOSED TO TRUST YOU? I trusted you and you BROUGHT ME HERE!"

Percy stared at him, and some undefinable little thing in him broke down. "IF I HADN'T OF BROUGHT YOU HERE YOU WOULD HAVE DIED AT THE MINISTRY WITH EVERYONE ELSE! I SHOULD have left you there! your NOTHING BUT A MUGGLE LOVING SON OF A BITCH!" Percy screamed, his fists balling.

He closed his eyes and opened his mouth and blasted his father with a force he hadn't known he'd had, finally mustering the nerve to tell his father what he really thought of him.

When he opened his eyes, Arthur was standing on the other side of the room, his back against the wall. His father was trembling, his eyes wide and changed behind his specs.

After a tense moment Percy composed himself and said in a low, controlled voice "Now, you've got to stop yelling or you might make someone mad."


	15. A smile in the dark

They met beneath a great black umbrella, outside on one of the benches near the front gate, off the long, winding road that lead up to Hogwarts castle.

It would be years before Harry would know just why he'd walked all that way for no reason, or how he'd known just who it was beneath that great, batlike umbrella, but as it happened that day it didn't seem strange at all, and so when Harry discovered that it really was Draco sitting there, he took a seat beside him, out of the rain. (Harry noticed that the umbrella was so large that it covered their shoes, and that the bench and ground around them was very dry). They sat together in the quiet; wet and cold but together.

At first, neither really said much. They simply sat side by side, both in and out of the rain. Because of the sudden change in weather, the snow was finally beginning to melt away and the still-green grass showed in patches here and there.

Harry's eyes were fixed intently on Draco, taking him in. His hair hadn't been fixed.

"Your hair is different. I didn't know you had so much of it."

"Oh, yeah. That's why I usually put it back."

"You shouldn't."

"I didn't today, did I?"

"Guess not."

they grew silent.

"Oh, hey. I brought you something." Harry pulled a napkin from his pocket. Inside was a fantastic confection with violet crumble batwings and a thousandberry filling. "I got it from the kitchens. They're making lots of interesting things for the feast this year."

Draco took it from him and inspected it curiously. "Why thank you, how thoughtful."  
>He said. Harry wanted to ask Draco why he sounded so surprised.<p>

"I had a few. They're good." Harry encouraged.

Draco took a bite and made an orgasmic noise with his mouth full, nodding his head in approval. He finished it in three bites and sat back, licking custard from his fingers.

"So what're you doing out here?" Harry asked, curiously.

"Waiting for the post."

"For your owl?" Harry laughed.

Draco looked at him unenthusiastically. When he spoke, his voice was dull and he had chocolate cherry on his breath. "Apparently you must not've heard." he said, "they've been killing all our owls..."

Harry didn't need to ask who 'they' were, and his sick heart skipped a precious beat.. what if Sirius wrote him? What if hedwig were to get hurt somehow? He didn't know what to say.

"Noone told me."

"That seems to be way of things with you, doesn't it?" Draco asked, a little sarcastically.

"Don't you even." Harry warned, "Especially after I've brought you something!"

The Slytherin hushed and looked at his hands. After a few minutes, Draco took a breath and frowned. "Do you suppose..?"

"Do I suppose...?"

"That there are still flowers underneath all the snow?... because you know, that happens sometimes."

"I'm guessing we'll find out soon enough.."

"..yeah.."

"Isn't it funny how it feels like sunday?"

"It does, doesn't it?"

"I never used to like sundays much.."

"Neither did i." Harry confessed, looking down at the saturated ground.

"It's getting cold."

"Yeah.."

"Draco..? Why are they called Death Eaters?"

"You don't know?"

"No, Draco. I don't know."

"oh. You say it as if it's such a bad thing.."

"But you know?"

"Of course I know."

"So tell me!"

"Well, there used to be this sort of. Legend that went around ages and aeons ago. There were these creature things that lived in the dark... and if the gods decided that your soul wasn't pure, you know. like virtuous and loving and all that terrible rot.. well, if you weren't, you were sent to hell.. And the death eaters would eat your soul..."

"..That's appaling." He said, giving him a sideways glance.

"You wanted me to tell you." He suddenly reached over and grabbed harry's hand, measuring their hands palm to palm. Harry noticed that his fingertips were sticky. "Same size." Draco stated. Harry, for all his surprise at suddenly being touched, didn't resist or let go Draco's hand.

"I guess they are, aren't they?" he asked, smiling.

For the first time, neither looked away or moved to hurry the moment along, and it passed between them warmly untill it was gone and their hands fell away again. It was a strange feeling, this.. undefineable thing that seemed to occur back and fourth between them like currents of living electricity. It made draco shiver. He'd never been so comfortable..

Harry's smile was wide and bright and silly and it made draco laugh, helplessly. Draco ran his fingers up and down the back of Harry's hand, walking them up and down two of Harry's fingers.

"Ginny's coming back to Hogwarts." Harry said, trying to maintain the conversation as he watched their hands twine together. It was a strange and dreamy vision, the sort of thing he always imagined lovers doing.. Once again, his heart skipped a beat, but this time it was for a completely different reason altogether.

"You know she just hates to be away from her darling boy in hard times."

Harry gave him a half smiling, half dissaproving look from behind his glasses, wondering breifly how Draco knew. Did he really pay that much attention to Harry? ...really? He looked back at Draco and they laughed.

"Do you sit like this with the weasley?" Draco inquired softly.

"Don't be mean." Harry laughed, flicking Draco's wrist with two fingers. Harry reached out from under the umbrella and caught a few drops in his hand. "I guess I've just got a strange feeling about it, is all. Not that Ginny isn't a nice girl, but.." Suddenly he felt silly for telling Draco. There wasn't really any reason for him to be suspicious of Ginny.

"What kind of feeling?" Draco asked, leaning forward interestedly.

"Like.." he paused, unsure. "Like there's something behind it." He finally said, firm in his conviction.

"But you don't know what? Maybe there is." Draco raised his eyebrows suggestively, squezing Harry's hand before he let Harry go, wiping a sweaty palm on his cloak.

"Why did you ask about Ron?"

"I was just asking. You didn't answer me, either. Do you?"

"No."

Draco smiled and laughed, unable to contain his delight. It was Harry's turn to raise his eyebrows, and he laughed a little too, holding out his hand. After a moment, Draco caught it and looked down at his shoes. "I've never had a friend like you."

Harry's whole being shivered at that. It was almost like draco knew just what to say to Harry, and could exerscise this dangerous power at will; when it was used for good, it was glorious.. but when it was used for evil..

"I've never had a friend like you, either," as he said this, Harry once again let himself imagine that things were like this between them all the time; quietly pretending that they were more than friends. And it wasn't like draco hadn't given Harry enough incentive to fuel these secret fantasies.. he sighed softly and felt the early stirrings of an erection coming on- Lately, it didn't take him much to get going. He shifted uncomfortably and coughed.

"So they've been killing owls?"

"Yea."

"Jesus."

"I know. And it's so funny, really. I mean.." he peeked out from under the umbrella, out beyond the walls of Hogwarts. "You'd never guess this was happening, now... but I reckon people were waiting for something like this." he was looking down at his hands, distantly. Harry thought he seemed sad.

"Are you frightened?" Harry asked, quietly. The question was almost a confession, the meaning behind the words full of undiluted fear.

"No." Draco answered, his responce clipped and automatic.

"..Me too."

In responce, Draco moved across the bench to sit closer to him, giving his hand a squeeze.

It was getting dark.

They shared a common pain, for just a minute- two people caught in situations they didn't nessicarily want to be a part of. Draco let his head rest on harry's shoulder and promised,

"..Someday we'll look back on this and laugh."

Sometime after Ginny had read Ron's letter (several times actually, at first giggling at it's absurdity and then later considering the more serious implications behind it), the Hogwarts express finally pulled in to hogsmeade. It had long since grown dark outside, and the layover at the station was bitterly cold. The porter had been very nice, helping her with her trunk and bags and things, as the other passengers cleared away- but eventually even he had to get back on the train and so she sat, perched upon a stack of luggage, waiting for the carriage to come.

For a minute she wondered if Harry and Malfoy fancied one another, but quickly let this idea go as it made her feel a little sick. Harry belonged to her. Or atleast, he would someday.

Looking around the station, it surprised her to see that same black dog sitting there, as thought it were waiting, too.

It paced back and fourth, snuffling the ground. Curiously, it began to sniff her bag. "Hey. Don't you get into that!" Ginny warned, watching as the dog began to gnaw on the weary latch that held her overstuffed satchel closed. He got it half way chewed off before Ginny hopped down off her luggage. "Stop that, you smelly mut!"

The dog growled and shook it's head, trying to tear the latch off completely. "I said STOP that!" she demanded. Frustrated, she kicked the great dog hard, so it stumbled away from her bag, it's leather strap released from his horrible teeth.

Snatching it up off the ground, she made as though she were going to kick it again. The dog whimpered and bared it's teeth, advancing for a moment before it turned and ran away, through Hogsmead and out into the wild night.

When Draco let go of Harry's hand, Harry shifted in his seat. "I guess I'd better get back up to the castle.. I told everyone I was going to the bathroom.." he laughed a little, smiling. "They're going to think I'm sick or something.."

"Ugh!" Draco laughed, shoving him away just a little.

"You ought to walk back up with me. You'll freeze if you stay out any longer."

"Guess your right." He stood up and closed the umbrella (with some struggle), and began to follow Harry up the road. Once they'd reached the grassy knoles that made up the Hogwarts grounds, a large, purple carriage rumbled up the road and past them.

"Must be the mail," Harry said, speculatively.

To their surprise, the feast was already underway when they entered the great hall. Twelve or so students around one small table, helping themselves to the euphony of tastes and goodies and yummydelicious things to eat laid out before them. The Halloween decorations were very extravegant- a hundred hollowed pumpkins hovered, each supporting a great candle. The enchanted ceiling above cast the room in an orange glow, havest moon like a halo above them all.

It also came as a shock to harry to see Ginny sitting there between Fred and George, carrying on a quiet conversation with Hermione. She had great dark circles around her eyes, and her wrists seemed especially thin, sticking out so delicately from her shirt cuffs. Draco noticed this too, and thought idly how easy it would be to break them. They crossed the great hall together, walking side by side.

When Ginny saw them her mind flashed and she gaped, lowering her head to hide the shock on her face. So it was true, then! She patted herself down for Ron's letter, checking just to make sure she had it.

Harry couldn't help but feel a little insulted when Draco didn't sit by him. There were three empty spots left; two on the other side of Hermione and one at the far end of the table. Draco slid onto the end of the bench easily and Harry sat down beside hermione, trying not to bother himself with wondering why Draco didn't take the seat beside him.

"It's good to see you," someone said, and Harry turned to look at Ginny. He had to lean forward to see past Hermione and Fred, and Ginny was smiling at him in a charming sort of way.

"Hey, Ginny," he said, forking disinterestedly at the steaming food on his plate.

"I'm so glad to be back at Hogwarts.." she chatted merrily, finishing up the last of her mashed potatos. "Isn't it just marvelous the way cheese melts?"

Harry looked at her, wondering why she was in such a good mood. Sitting between the eerily glum Fred and George, her cheerful disposition seemed somewhat perverse, like she took a secret delight in all that had happened. He could see Draco at the end of the table beyond her, eating quietly. He was sitting next to and across from two second year Hufflepuffs, listening to their conversation with a dull sort of curiosity.

"We're all going to die. They're going to kill us a-."

"Just! Shh- will you sh- How can you even say that?"

"Easy."

"That's not good. That's not even true."

"I know.." one said to the other mournfully. "But. It's like the entire world is.. falling apart. Have you heard about all those killings? Hundreds of people are dying all the time. They've got no witnesses, they've got no leads and it doesn't even matter because everyone knows whose REALLY doing it!"

"Shh!"

"Even the muggles are scared; they've got no idea what's really going on but my parents are muggles, see, and they wrote me saying that there's been all this rot in the papers.."

"My mum's still missing." the other said quietly. "They told my father that they don't think they'll find her.."

"Don't say that. They will. Your mum is just fine.. She's alive. You've just. got to keep believing that. It'll be alright." The first insisted comfortingly.

Draco looked down at his plate. He felt strangely guilty listening to them talk while the dark mark on his arm sang in sudden painful revelation. He turned his attention away, not wishing to hear anymore.

The Halloween feast ended early that year.

Back in the stagnant familiarity of the Slytherin common rooms, Draco felt the weight of the world crashing down on him. He sat in the chair nearest to the fire, his chair, and stared at his hands, thinking of all the the trivial little things that he used to spend his time agonizing over- where was he going to get another pack of fags and why wouldn't Pansy just put out already, a million ways to get under Harry's skin...

those days felt far away now, unreachable and safe, like he ought to be grieving the loss. He'd give anything to have problems like that again; simple and easily solved.

Things were very quiet, he noticed, almost as though he were in the eye of the storm. This was the calm that settled over everything, just before the worst of it hurled itself at you.

A shadow cast itself on the wall before him, tall, lightless and easily recognizable.

"Hello, Professor," he said, turning to see the potions master standing there behind his chair, dark and pale all at once.

"I require your assistance with something, Draco."

"Oh? What?"

"You will drink this." He held up a simple silver cup and handed it to draco, watching as the boy took it and sniffed the substance warily.

"What is it?" he asked, suspiciously.

"Drink it."

"I don't think so! I can hardly say I trust you. I'll break out in boils or some awful rash or something else utterly disgusting.." he said, taking a deep, draining drink of the stuff.

Almost instantly, his eyelids grew heavy and his heart seemed to slow. Draco never found out what it was; by the time Snape spoke again, he had already fallen asleep.

The girl's fingertips traced the carving, and she felt him pass through her like a ghost, untouchable unreal forgotten goodbye...

Touching those three letters she felt his presence echoing up through the floor at her, as though she were listening to her favourite song from very far away. This was a link to the boy she loved. The carving in the floor read

T.M.R.

She remembers him in a series of visuals and lingering shadows- a thin boy with dark hair and briliant poison eyes, his pretty face.. the way his words floated up out of that diary; how they seemed to whisper.

You were only friend, she thinks, as she steals away from her brothers and 'friends' (with some effort) and slips from light into shadow. She moves beyond the familiar, glowing passageways and into to a draftier, older wing of their great school. She feels it calling her home again, that essence, and it draws her back behind the dusty tapestry and down the secret stair, around the corner, you're almost there- and then, there she was.

This was what she'd really been waiting for. This was the moment she'd been anticipating since she'd left:

To feel him once again.

She recalls the story Harry and her brother had invented, some wild tale about how Tom had decieved her, used her. But of course, she knew that was nonsense. Tom hadn't lied to her, hadn't hurt her. Tom would never do such a thing. Tom had helped her to grow up. He had shown her the way, afterall.

She smiled. He had been there when noone else seemed to care- after that first year at hogwarts, her liking for Harry had taken on new meaning. Before, she had fancied him because he was Harry- after that she fancied him because he reminded her of Tom.

And now he had risen again, great and glorius. This would be the hour of his reckoning, the time when he would rightfully reclaim all the power he had lost so long ago.

He needed her, she felt. It wouldn't be right to let him do it all alone, would it? It only took her a minute to decide that she would be going, and she was gone before dawn.

Voldemort stood up and moved like a broken doll towards the door. His feet shuffled across the dusty floor, rottingalive lungs wheezing black in his chest. He opened the door and moved to stand near the railing.

The building itself was old and had been built simply. One great entance room, with one obtrusive staircase that lead up, floor upon floor spiralling on against the walls forever, it seemed. If you looked over the railing and focused yours eyes, you could see the black and white checkers that tiled the very first floor.

From the second floor, he could look down and spy his great revival in the making; a factory of skin and meat, needles and everthread enchanted to stitch skin to skin. There were rows of them, these corpse soldier things, naked and pink and raw and limply hung from hooks magically suspended in mid air. The place stinks of fecal waste and other unpleasant thing. They are building bodies, he thinks, somewhat removed from the situation, but they can't fashion one for the likes of me.

Only a select few wizards had been chosen to direct this clumsy rotting army, and he watched them wave their arms, wands sparking colours in near darkness as the minions swarmed and swayed on their hooks below him, only half created.

He smiles in the dark and noone sees him do it.


	16. Return to Hogwarts

november 31st

The night sky rose high above them, brilliant blue framed by the edges of the great glorious windows. The lamp near them flickered, and Draco watched the stars wink at him from afar.

"Tomorrow's the day." Harry said, somewhat dully. As much as he looked forward to seeing Ron and Hermione again, a part of him was certain that his time with Draco was surely over. Harry looked at his hands.

"I don't want it to come." Draco had said, leaning back in his chair- he fell against the support of the table behind and stayed that way, posted up with his feet dangling. He swung them to keep himself distracted. Harry looked at him and smiled a little, glad to hear Draco say it.

After a minute, Draco decided to change the subject.  
>"You know, there's a charm you can do where you recite the proper names of six stars and you have a dream that gives you the initials of the person your going to marry." He said. "But personally, I think it sounds like something some miserable muggle made up."<p>

Harry laughed. "I heard Lavender talking about that, before she left.. and then I heard Hermione reciting the names..." he snickered.

"Funny, girls are." Draco mused. Harry noddded, suddenly quiet.

"I'd like to know what good that'd do you, to know their inititals." Harry said.

"P. P." draco said, unhappily.

Harry looked at him curiously and Draco met his eyes.

"And do you want to know the really disgusting thing?" he asked. Harry nodded.

"She's my cousin"

"What?" harry asked softly, almost as if he hadn't quite heard Draco right. They were cousins? Harry very breifly thought of Dudley and shuddered involuntarily.

"..Pansy's my cousin."

Harry kept very silent. "but.. isn't that.. against the law?"

"We aren't first cousins or anything, harry, It's not that bad, Oh. but, my mum and dad are, though. but don't tell anyone.. That's why I've got such pure blood, you see? All the old wizarding familes do it. even the Weasleys."

Harry looked at him. and Draco smiled, unable to help himself. "Although, admittedly, some blood is purer than others.."

Harry rolled his eyes. Draco smiled at him. "I don't really want to marry her, though." Draco said, airily.

"Who do you want to marry?" harry asked, leaning forward in his seat. He tapped his wand on Draco's boot ("incindium") and a small blue fire burned there. Draco hardly noticed.

"I'm not really sure yet.." he decided. "Certainely not Pansy. I mean i would like to have a powerful heir.." he paused, and smiled. "Just not with her. She's dull. And stupid. Harry, you haven't the vaugest conception."

"You'd be surprised." Harry looked at him, snuffing out the small fire. Draco sat forward all at once so his chair fell and their faces were close together. He took a breath and began to speak rapturously, enchanting harry as he did so. "You know, sometimes, I'd just like to run away and live an entirely different life altogether in a different place, with different names and faces. You could be a completely different person with a different story. I mean, you could go anywhere.. as long as things were interesting.. don't you think? As long as you didn't have to be anybody's bloody puppet."

As he proffesed this to harry all at once, somewhat passionately, Harry felt as though he were being kissed by Draco's words, and visions of the two of them off together on adventures danced behind his heavy eyelids.

"I'd like to go somewhere where nobody knew my name." Harry said softly.

In Harry's mind, the two of them would spend a quiet time together away from the world, just as Draco had said- they would be different people, with different names. They could go anywhere they wanted, he thought dreamily, imagining what it might be like to feel Draco's skin and lips and hands and laughter beneath the new york city skyline.

Secretly, Harry admitted to himself that they would kiss there underneath the buildings that scraped the sky, with a million muggles roaring by them, hurrying to live out one more day in their not-so-charmed lives.. Draco would sigh against him and rest his head on Harry's shoulder and then he..

"It's possible," Draco said, and Harry looked at him, breaking the million mile gaze that he had been gazing.

The Gryffindor nodded, swept up in restless musings.

Harry liked hogwarts, liked his life there, but sitting there with Draco in that moment, he had never before felt such a strong desire to flee. It was as though something were calling out to him from across the twilight, the promise of something better than.. this.

"I'd go with you." Harry said.

Draco smiled. "Someday."

"And they'll never find us, either. As long as we live." Harry added, grinning.

"Oh, Harry. I've just remembered!" Draco stood up and reached for his book, as though he were getting ready to go. "There's something i've wanted to show you.. and I suppose I'd better do it now, considering. Can't afford to go holding it off any longer.."

Harry looked at him expectantly, but didn't stand up or move. He was wondering what Draco was posibly talking about, expecting it to be something tangible, something you can pull out of your pocket and touch with your fingers. Draco looked at him, his hands moving expressively; prompting.

"So come on then," Draco said, and there was a strange exuberance in his voice. "We'd better shove off and get there before it gets dark.."

Harry followed him curiously, cautiously, suddenly not so trusting of Draco's judgements.

They turned down a very old and dusty corridor, which lead into a huge chamber with a door in each of it's square corners.

"I've never been in this part of the school before." Harry admitted somewhat wonderingly. he shivered.

The windows above them were a deep cerulian blue, and harry noticed it was cold. This place didn't seem to live up to the same set of hogwarts standards- the floor was dirty, the walls and chairs and tapestries dusty.

"Why don't they use this?" Harry asked uneasily, running his fingers over the dust in the railing. He stepped to the edge and looked over onto the floor below. If he squinted in the dull blue light he could see what must've been skooldesks, organized in haphazard rows, everything in disarray.

"Or do I already know.." he half said to himself, looking upward. The ceiling was made from dirty acid glass, counted and quartered with iron bars- not unlike a greenhouse, he thought idly.

Draco lead him to the door second nearest to them, and pushed in. It opened with little resistance and Harry found himself in another classroom, but this one was much smaller- much stranger.

Everywhere, there were maps on the walls, strangely graphic depictions of meat and bodily insides. "What class room was this?" Harry asked, frowning a little. He was staring at a row of jars along the far wall. each one a little bigger than the last, they contained a sucession of various infant species.

"This was the medical magic room back when my father went to school here. in fact, he's the one who told me about it in the first place..." Draco trailed off and started again.  
>"But it doubled as the advanced transfiguration room, because apparently once you get far enough into it you learn all about the metamorphosis of something's insides when it changes... or somehing... don't know for sure exactly." Harry was looking at him, a little strangely.<p>

"It's not really my thing." Draco tacked on, slowly.

"This is what you wanted to show me?" Harry asked unenthusiastically, looking around. He crossed the room and opened the cupboard. It was empty.

"Well, no.. not exactly. what I really wanted to show you is through there." He motioned with his hand towards another door.

The first time draco had found the extra room was when he had looked for the entrance to the chamber of secerts in his second year- of course, he hadn't found it, but the discovery of the room itself would make up for that entirely.

For there, carved in the ancient, grimy, wooden floor were the intitals of Tom Marvolo Riddle himself, and it radiated an ultra-Slytherance that Draco could not deny himself. He eventually realized that because it was in one of the oldest and least used wings of the school, that it was entirely too easy to sneak out at night and collect his thoughts there. Draco would stretch himself across the floor and let the pulse of it's memories and energy beat along with the pump of his heart. The romance of it would draw him in and occupy his thoughts for a time.

It made him feel seductive and dark- wicked, even, just lying there.  
>The summer after that he developed a habit of lifting things from his father's dark art's collection (along with cigarettes and other things)- little knicknacks that had belong to Riddle long ago.. when he had still been Riddle.<p>

Of course, this hadn't been good for Draco. He grew sick eventually, plauged with bouts of sleeplessness that went on for days, and were countered only by feverish, restless naps filled with garish nightmares.

He swallowed. He had been trying to pull on his glove and suddenly, for just a second he felt as he did the time that he, Pansy, Crabbe and Goyle had all taken vials of sillydrip. Then, all of a sudden the world was melting around him and he was falling into a green Slytherin swirl, lost in the feel of the strange thoughts that had overcome him rotting away in a room.. with horrible yellow wallpaper...

It was as if some strange, subconscious memory had come roaring at him from across the darkest scapes of his mind, and then the world simply darkened itself to his eyes.

When he awoke again, Harry was leaning over him, rubbing anxiously at his scar. Draco blinked and Harry looked at him.  
>"What happened?" Harry asked, his eyes wide behind his glasses.<p>

Draco sat up and made a disgusted sort of noise. "I don't even know."

Harry looked at him very curtly. "Do you realize how often you actually do that?" he asked.

Draco blinked and stood up, shaking himself. "Do what?"

"Just fall over and burn out?" Harry asked, as though there were something wrong with Draco. His eyebrows were raised up near his hairline. Draco blinked at him, and then Harry held out a hand to help him up. Draco stood up on his own, offering a small smile.

Harry wondered for just a second if maybe it wasn't just something Draco did for shock and show. His scar had hurt very badly as Draco had passed out, and Harry couldn't help but feel that it was somehow, ominously significant. This part of the castle felt unwelcoming to Harry, which, on the whole, was unusual. Hogwarts may have been old and sometimes rather drafty, but it was never spooky.

"Let's go. This place gives me the creeps." Harry said, staring around the little room. He crossed his arms over his chest, unsafe in such a place. Draco agreed quickly, and was relieved to go.

Leaving, Harry asked Draco how he could come here alone, and Draco just shrugged, making light of dark matters. Before he'd gotten the mark hed come here all the time, but now, he realized that he didn't caer for it as much.

He was too busy being haunted by the thoughts that had seized him to really pay attention, the familiarity of something he couldn't put his finger on.

They made their way through the dis-used wing of the school slowly, the farther away from the room they got, the better Draco felt. He felt a little stupid for bringing Harry there in the first place, embarrassed at having fainted in front of him. He also had another, smaller ponderance, one that he didn't want to focus on:

What could it possibly mean, his strange vision?

Harry would probably tell the Weasley he fainted, and Draco was certain that they would laugh about it later in secret, just the two of them, after he and Harry were no longer friends...

It hit him all at once that tomorrow was the day that everyone would be returning, the day that their so called friendship would end... Draco's thoughts kept him silent as they wandered their way through the castle.

They reached the Slytherin stair first, and Draco made a quick goodnight of things, not being able to express any of the things he wanted to. Frustrated by some kind of insufferable silence, Draco turned to walk down the stairs, having made as much of a goodbye as he possibly could.

It really was the most natural assumption he could make- tomorrow, their friends would be back and things would be the way they were before. Draco counted the steps as he went down them, subdued.

five.. seven.. eight.. nine.. ten...

On December first, when Draco went down to breakfast, the castle was alive and suspended in the anticipation of people. The food tasted better, the fires burned brighter, and even Draco was subject to infection- the air of excitement was simply too much for him to bear. It swept him up and he was happy to be so violently lost in the oblivion of the buzz.

In this breif, giddy delirium, he spent most of the morning with Harry, dragging him up and down the halls by the hand when there was noone there to see it. They snickered together, and whispered vaguely mean things to one another in secret about this person or that person. Draco was surprised to find harry so willing to do this with him ("Do you remember when Hannah Abbot.. No, Not her.. that Hufflepuff girl. Do you remember when she cursed her spots, Harry? Of course I remember, it looked like her face exploded..." "Zacharias Smith? What an ass. Stupid nose. His nose has always been stupid looking to me.")

In retrospect, Draco would eventually come to realize that he must've been soaking Harry up.. spending what he thought would be their last minutes together in some kind of manic blur.

Of course, he knew that these weren't really their last minutes together- they would still go to the same school, and even have some of the same classes. They would still sit at the same two tables, and know the same teachers. But that didn't mean that they would speak, or touch or laugh or talk... they would never get drunk again together, would never share eachother's secrets. There would be no more thundering heartbeat rainy afternoons under an umbrella together, either... no chance of anything more.

The truth of the matter was that Draco wasn't ready to give Harry up yet, and he knew it. Draco did not like to be reminded, or even to think of how he had always, always wanted Harry- his attention, his friendship, his interest, his time, and his awareness of this was a constant humiliation that morning. It pestered him untill he was scowling and sour and hating positively everything.

After lunch the small group of students stood outside with the staff on the great steps of the castle and watched the line of carriages rumble up the road. Softly, Draco marvelled to Harry at how many of them there were. It looked as though half of the wizarding population were coming.

Draco noticed the Hufflepuff girl and her friend trembling in their cloaks.

The ammount of people that swallowed them up after that was incalculable. One by one the carriages stopped before the doors of the school, allowing however many familiy members there were to climb out (and sometimes there were very many), before the carriage rumbled away, and another rolled it's it's place.

They swarmed up the stairs, merry and cherry and happy to be back at Hogwarts. Some people spoke darkly of Ginny Weasley, the little girl who vanished- and Draco even saw a few people eyeing him as well. The Malfoy boy.. mm. troubled, he is. Draco saw people he hadn't seen in years, saw people he hated- saw everyone and their granddaddies.

When Draco saw the flaming red of the Weasley's hair coming towards them in the crowd, he scowled even harder, watching as Hermione rushed to him. Even Mrs. Weasley was surprised at this display, when Ron wrapped his arms around her and drew her as close to him as Harry might've liked to have Draco. When they released one another, Harry looked away, in time to catch Pansy pounce Draco; to see him sweep her into his arms. She captured his startled lips in a kiss and he kissed back.

Harry cringed away from the sight as his heart sank and shuddered, and he turned to walk up the stairs, feeling strangely and utterly alone. The great hall was packed with people trying to find the rooms they'd be staying in, and he could hear a little person screaming somewhere. Harry admitted to himself secretly that he wished he could do the same.

As Harry went, Draco was left with Pansy and her kisses- he could see Crabbe and Goyle climbing the stairs, looking strangely smug and changed. Crabbe was thinner, and he looked angrier than Draco had ever seen him. This troubled draco, as helplessly, he let his arms wrap around Pansy's dainty waist, the curve of her slim, round hips blooming outward.

"Oh, Draco." she sighed overdramatically, laying her head on his shoulder. "I've missed you so,"

"Your mum's coming, too," Goyle said, coming to stand beside them. Other people on the stair pushed around them as they simply stood there, a still spot in the throng. Crabbe followed, looking positively pleased with himself. Draco couldn't help but think that Crabbe looked like he'd finally gotten what he'd wanted.  
>"My Mum is here?" Draco asked, nearly choking on his own surprise. His eyes were wide.<br>"Of course, silly. She's right there!" Pansy pointed and Draco saw her, coming up the way. Two of their house elves carried her trunk and luggage, leaving her free to walk poised and lovely.  
>A part of him was very relieved to see her in such good health. She wore robes made up from varying shades of purple chiffon, layers making colours. Later Pansy would refer to it as the 'bruise dress'.<p>

"Angel.." she said, as Pansy stepped back so Narcissa could embrace him.

They walked together in a little clump through the great hall, fighting their way through the people and down into the dungeons, Pansy trying her best to keep hold of Draco's hand while Narcissa ordered the little house elves around, instructing them on how to find the apartments that had been assigned to her.

His mother's rooms were small and nicely decorated, and Draco sat in the chair by the fire as his mum swept around, nervously arranging all the useless things she'd brought with her for the stay.

"I'm expecting your father.." she said airily, drawing a bottle of wine from her bag and pouring herself a generous glass.

"May I have some, do you think?" Draco asked, somewhat hopefully.

"Absolutley not," someone said, and Draco turned to see his father's head in the fire, flames licking at his untouched skin. He looked terribly moody and Draco felt that he didn't want to be there just then.

"If you inebriate my son.." he began to warn her, and Narcissa waved him silent with a hand. "Oh, just stop." He was silenced.

She took a smug sip. And why shouldn't she be smug? Afterall, she had done what he'd asked, hadn't she? She'd come at his request. Somehow he had badgered her into it by assuring her that it would look better if one of them went, atleast.  
>Of course, she hadn't wanted to hear any of this. She had agreed to silence him, and that was all. Really, all her coming here served to do was make him look even guiltier, and if anything, she didn't mind that so much.<p>

Draco watched her dissapear out of the little room, and he was left alone with his father. Draco swallowed and looked at him, biting his tongue.  
>"The room has been arranged. Starting Christmas, we'll have it up and working. It's actually very well-timed, we've gotten lucky. With all the people come to stay at Hogwarts, there's no way that they'll be able to tell we've added a room because they've had to add so many extra anyway."<br>Lucius explained, and Draco looked at him skeptically. "Clever." he said, dully.

"After that, it'll all be up to you." Lucius said, smiling a little. Draco fround him to be in a strangely good mood suddenly, and it made him nervous.

"Are you drunk?" He asked, suddenly suspicious.

Lucius seemed not to hear him. "You know, there's been some very interesting developments on our end, Draco.. Why didn't you tell us the Weasley girl was coming?"

Draco blanched. Ginny weasley had gone to join voldemort?

"I didn't think it'd be of any importance to you..." he stammered, thinking quickly.  
>"She's just a Weasley, afterall."<p>

Lucius eyed him. "Very interesting things have been developing here, Draco. I don't know why you didn't tell me about that detestable Weasley girl and her.. plan."

He looked at Draco, and Draco felt that his father knew the truth- Draco hadn't known. Lucius eyed him warily. "I've got something for you.." he prompted, and put a pack of fags in his mouth. Reluctantly, Draco came forward and took them from his father's mouth. It made him feel wrong, but he was glad to have them once they were in his hand. he hadn't wanted to take them.. but..

"I'll give you another tomorrow." Lucius said, and Draco was sure his father wanted something from him, then.  
>"Oh? I'll be seeing you tomorrow?"<p>

Lucius nodded, and was not to be questioned. Draco unwrapped them and lit one, unable to deny the temptation. It soothed his nerves, and he found himself able to sit still before the fire; the feel of it hit him all at once and he sighed.

The next few days were chaos. Draco found he couldn't go anywhere in the halls without seeing people he didn't want to see. There were wizards everywhere. People were staying in empty classrooms, sleeping in closets and alcoves- it was absolute madness.

Apparently, the immediate families of the student body weren't the only ones seeking shelter from the terror occuring outside in the world- there were great uncles and aunts, and distant counsins, too.

Draco hadn't seen Harry since the day everyone had arrived, and the Gryffidor's absence was sorely felt by Draco. One minute he had been standing there, nearly right beside him, and then Harry was gone, not to be seen again.

Atleast, that's how it felt.

Draco tried to reason why he spent so much time thinking of Harry- wondering what harry was doing, if harry was thinking of him.. draco found himself recalling more and more the times they spent together, laughing at the jokes they'd shared between themselves.

He would sit with his mother at the little table in her room, drinking his tea in defeated silence while she stirred her drink compulsively, untill the liquid swirled of it's own accord in the cup.

on december seventh, Draco finally convinced Pansy that it was worth her time to come back to his dorm after lunch- he lead her down the dungeon corridor by the hand, and in the dark with her body close to his he though of Harry. They'd held hands like this once; had whispered like this.

But pansy never made him feel nervous like Harry, never made his heart beat fast.

And it was just as well, because when they got to Draco's dorm he found Narcissa there, ordering her house elves about to tidy things up. When she set eyes upon Pansy she cried out and began to fawn over her endlessly, complimenting her hair and eyes and skin and demanding to know where she found her 'charming' shoes.

"You saw pansy yesterday, remember, mum?" he asked, helping himself to a handful of raspberry tarts as he crossed the room and spawled himself in the chair nearest the fire.

It got worse when Lucius appeared in the fire, and Draco was forced to spend an afternoon sitting with Pansy on the couch, clutching her hand as his mother glowed over her and his father boasted, promising her a comfortable, easy life with Draco at Malfoy Manor-a life Draco wasn't sure he really wanted to be a part of.

However, nothing seemed to make Pansy happier in the world, and she held onto Draco extra tight as he stared off into space, longing to be separate from these people that were supposed to mean something to him but didn't..  
>His mother chattered, while Pansy sat in silence- the sound of his father's voice audible but unintelligable. He heard Pansy laugh, felt the warmth of the subtle winter sun on his back.<p>

"For a time I thought the rumors might actually be true! but then I thought, of course not, my Draco would never do such a thing. He's just.. extra good at what he does.. right, Draco?"  
>Draco turned his head and looked at her. When he spoke, his throat was dry and sick with obligation. Parched.<p>

"..what?"

"You'd never really be friends with that Gryffindor riffraff, would you?"

He shook his head slowly, finally tearing his eyes from the pattern on the rug.

"No. Of course not. I'm.." he paused and shook his head. "I'm just very convincing." Behind Pansy, his mother smiled, and lucius nodded in approval. "I'm so pleased to see you turning out this way," Lucius admitted. "There are great things in store for you. just you wait."

And of course, because Pansy was so desprate to really lay claim to Draco, she told everyone what had gone on that afternoon- especially the Gryffindors. Draco was certain it had gotten back to Harry, all the things that he had said. But what else could he have done?

He tried not to think of this, and when that didn't work he settled for trying to justify it in his mind.

He and harry had both known that things would be different when everyone came back. If Harry had any sense at all, he'd know that this was just the way things had to be, and those were just the things that he had to say.

All in all, things weren't going so good for draco. The only really good thing about any of it was that classes had been put in hiatus. He felt uncomfortable around his parents, constantly hampered by Pansy, at odds with Crabbe and Goyle, and to top it all off, he missed Harry terribly. If he could only see Harry alone for just a minute, he could communicate his secret desire to remain friends, but there were no pretenses that Draco invent under which this would be acceptable. He didn't dare show up outside the portrait entrance to Gryffindor Tower.

As there was nothing else to do (and because he wanted to avoid his Mum and Father), Draco had taken to roaming the halls with Crabbe and Goyle. However, things were different between them, now. Goyle, especially, seemed no longer content to exsist solely as Draco's henchman, and Draco found himself in what seemed to be a constant clash of wills with him. The two of them together were harder, stronger, faster, meaner now- Draco almost envied them.

Almost.

when things were pleasant, Goyle acted mostly as Draco's equal, and Draco wasn't sure if he liked this turn of events or not.

Because of this predicament, they spent most of their time wandering the halls aimlessly- Goyle still to liked to laugh at other people's misfortune and so Draco used this as a way to make things feel more like they once were, when he had been the leader. And as great as things could have been-

He still hadn't seen harry.

It took Draco atleast two weeks, but eventually he got used to having his Mum around, and once he found that she was willing to give him a steady supply of wine, he was much more willing to sit with her on afternoons when he could've been out doing something much more interesting. The constant slight-drunkenness kept him from driving himself insane- he felt he was in an unending state of distress, whether he was worrying about his father or Voldemort, or Harry, or wondering about whether or not his mum was really.. okay

As much as seeing Pansy and Draco kiss had upset Harry, being with Ron and Hermione again did more than enough to help him forget it for a time. It had been a happy reunion, especially when Hermione discovered that Mrs. Weasley had roused the twins out of their depression.

Molly stayed with them for a long time in their dorm room, and things were very very quiet for much too long a time. Hermione, Ron and Harry sat in the common room downstairs, waiting for something to happen.

Once they'd been settled in, Ron was very keen on hearing all about Malfoy, sneering to hear Harry call him by his first name. Harry made light of it in from of Ron, but talking about it, he realized that he really did miss Draco.

"It isn't like he's my best friend or anything. It's just because there wasn't anyone else around. i mean really, there was no one here. And really, I think the reason he was so awful for so long was because he was lonely."

Hermione shot Harry a look, her eyebrows quirked thoughtfully.

"So that's an excuse to be friends with Malfoy?" ron said, disgustedly.

"Ron-"

Hermione cleared her throat, but otherwise kept quiet about such matters- she was still rather upset with Harry over it. Or atleast, Harry thought she was upset with him over it. She had remained curiously quiet on the subject.

Things got much more interesting when Neville reported having heard Pansy say that they had never really been friends at all, and certainely weren't friends now. Harry didn't want to feel as though his heart were sinking in to his stomach, but try as he might to ignore it, he found his mood suddenly plummeting.

"I'd say, from the way she was talking, he hates us all just as much as ever." Neville said in his wisest voice, before his Gran called him off from down the staircase.  
>Hermione looked at harry curiously, and ron shook his head.<p>

Harry sat quiet for a minute, his mouth open with the anticipation of saying something. "That's funny," was all Harry could manage, and it came off wonderfully nonchalant.

"No, it's not." Ron snapped jealously. "Malfoy's an arse. That's all. Just like he's always been. and I don't see what's so funny about that." He folded his arms across his chest in a gesture of finality and sat back sulkily.

"You don't know that!" Harry said, stragely defesive. Hermione's head snapped from left to right to look at Harry.

"Don't I though!" Ron nearly shouted, his ears turning red.

Harry and Hermione were silenced by this outburst, and Hermione caught the traces of disgust on harry's face. It worried her.

Harry, however, was simply lost in his thoughts. He wasn't sure why the news of what Draco said bothered him so much, and at the same time, he was terribly, obviously aware of the reason. It made him blush and shift in his seat uncomfortably. Surely Draco couldnt've have said those things. Sure, things were.. different, now that everyone else had come back, but that was no reason to go burning bridges.. right?

Ron was also very upset when Harry informed him that no, Ginny hadn't given him a letter, what letter? And where was Ginny anyway? He stormed off without saying much of anything. Harry and Hermione looked at one another, before Hermione hurried after him, looking over her shoulder at harry with an apologetic look upon her face.

Hermione returned alone a few minutes later. "He's gone to bed," she explained. "Look, Harry, I don't mean to be... well." She paused. "Did something happen? Between you and Malfoy..?" She asked, looking at him.

Harry braced himself and told Hermione about the day in Hogsmead, explaining that Draco had agreed that he wouldn't get the dark mark.

"You really believe him?" She asked. Harry thought about it and nodded. "He might be a prat but he's not actually evil. You should have heard the way he was talking, the way he goes around acting is just an act."

Hermione looked at Harry and sighed. "It still doesn't excuse the way he's behaved." she said, somewhat defensively.

Harry shrugged, but he felt a little better having told Hermione a version of the truth.

Ron, however, didn't get any friendlier in the days to come, and so finally Harry decided to pay a visit to Dumbledore, not knowing what to do, or where to go to escape the strange tension between he, Ron and Hermione.

When he reached Dumbledore's office he found the door already open, and to his surprise and delight, a great black dog laying on the carpet.

"Sirius!"

Harry spent a cozy evening with Dumbledore and Sirius, drinking butterbeer and eating limestone pies. They talked of the approaching holiday season, quidditch (Harry and Sirius both shared a deep dissapointment that the season had been cancelled), and especially, Harry's parents.

Sirius remarked once again how much Harry looked like his father, and Harry was self conscious under his watchful eyes, but he smiled, just the same.

Towards the end of the night, Dumbledore set his teacup down and sat forward in his chair.

"Tell me, Harry, have you seen much of Draco?" He asked, calmly, as if he were asking about the weather.

"No, sir," Harry said, trying to keep his emotions at bay. He didn't really want to talk to Dumbledore about Malfoy after such a fine evening.

"Pity, I was under the impression that the two of you had struck up something of a friendship."

Harry swallowed. Sirius was watching him with interest. "I thought we had, but I think I might have been wrong."

Dumbledore smiled. "I wouldn't give up hope on Draco yet, if I were you. If I'm correct, he needs a friend now more than ever." 


	17. Please don't hate me

Once the Weasley family noticed that Ginny was gone, the alarm was raised and Dumbledore notified at once. Mrs. Weasley was beside herself- on top of Arthur's disappearance, she now had to deal with the emotional stress of having Ginny missing as well. The worst part of it was that none of them really knew how long Ginny had been gone. With Mrs. Weasley preoccupied with the twins, no one really recalled having seen Ginny around the last few days.

The castle was searched, but Ginny was not to be found. Ginny's disappearance was a blow to everyone. Hermione seemed unable to forgive herself that she hadn't noticed that Ginny was gone.

This left Harry with an anxious feeling in the pit of his stomach. The last time Ginny Weasley had disappeared, he and Ron had found her in the Chamber of Secrets. Though Harry had no real reason to think so, he was subconsciously convinced that her disappearance had something to do with Voldemort.

As christmas grew nearer, Pansy continued to spread the word that Draco had never been friends with perfect Potter, and Harry, strangely humiliated and betrayed by this, did his best to act as though nothing were happening..

This, however, was not easy. People seemed to want to ask him about this, and he found himself more than once engaged in a conversation surrounding allegations that Harry had followed Draco around while no-one had been there to see it.

Of course, and Hermione was quick to point this out to everyone, if anyone was following anyone, Draco would've been following Harry.

It circulated around school, however, and gossip passed amongst the students that came back to Draco from time to time. Blaise Zabini, especially, was very curious to know whether or not the rumours were true, but Draco would never tell him.

Things finally came to a head several days before christmas.

Draco, along with Pansy, Crabbe, Goyle, and Blaise, had all gone up for a late lunch together. As they reached the top of the stairs, Draco recognized a familiar face or five among the crowd.

It was none other than the Gryffindors themselves, and Blaise saw the reaction on Draco's face when Harry looked up and, if by aid of some supernatural sense, laid eyes on Draco instantaneously.

And then, Harry did something that would forever be remembered by Gryffindors and Slytherins alike.

He crossed the Great Hall and came over to say hello. Watching Harry make his way towards them gave Draco a cold sweat; his palms grew sticky, his knees weak and nervous and conflicted. Draco looked at the group of superficial-friends-forever that stood around him, waiting in smug anticipation of what they knew Draco was about to do.

Harry finally made it to him, smiling. "Draco, I haven't seen you," Harry said, in an utterly friendly way that made Draco secretly tortured and sad. However, a lot was riding on Draco's reaction to Harry, and he knew it. Especially in the presence of his fellow Slytherins, with their watchful eyes and their not-so-faithful tongues.

It took Draco a moment to answer and when he did it was not with words. He looked Harry up and down distastefully and turned his skislope nose upward, laughing and turning to walk away towards the farthest table; the table draped in green.

The other Slytherins followed, and as if cued by Draco's snickers, joined in.

They left Harry standing there humiliated, hurt and indignant - his pride wounded in front of everyone.

As he tried to eat, Draco could hear a little voice in his head, saying the same thing over and over again.

I hope you're happy.

For both boys, the rest of the day was coloured with shades of restlessness and unease, which bled into sleepless nights as the world outside grew darker.

Draco, sometime shortly after midnight, awoke to find that he simply couldn't sleep - and so, in the company of Crabbe and Goyle (who he had woken up to keep him amused), he found himself roaming the halls in his pajamas, standard issue Slytherin gray blankets wrapped around his shoulders, slippers shuffling against the cold stones of the castle floor.

Back in the Gryffindor common room, Harry didn't want to talk about what had happened, which made Hermione suspect that he was more upset by it than what he let on. Ron, however, did not have Hermione's good sense to notice this, and seemed to want to talk of nothing else. No matter how many times Hermione cleared her throat, or tried to change the sucject, Ron wouldn't budge from his favoured topic of conersation.

"I don't know what you were thinking, Harry. Just going over to Malfoy like that. What did you expect? You didn't actually think that he'd just say hello right back, did you? I tried to tell you."

Harry looked at Hermione, and looked at Ron. Then he stood up, shoving himself out of the armchair he'd been sitting in. Without looking back, he simply walked out, climing out of the portrait hole and going down the hall.

"Now see what you've done?" Hermione snapped, looking at Ron.

And that was how he managed to run into Draco and his 'goons', as Ron might say.

He had turned a wrong corner and before he could turn back, Draco had spotted him and was coming for him, walking determined down the hall towards him, as though he had a purpose and a place to go.

Harry thought how ominous they looked in the mostly-dark of the cathedral-esq hallway, coming towards him in a trio, their blankets billowing out behind them like shadows or wings or dark things that might be following them.

"What do you want?" Harry asked angrily, looking at Draco.

Draco just smiled.

"You know, Draco, I don't understand how you can be so two-faced. Why are you doing this? To impress these two assholes?" Harry spat out his words with fevor.

Crabbe and Goyle turned several shades more menacing as Harry spoke and if Harry didn't know better, he'd say that Draco had been disarmed for just a moment.

"Why do you act this way when this isn't even who you really are?" Harry continued, and Draco's face grew stormy.

"Mates," he said, dryly, and Crabbe and Goyle snatched Harry, one hulking cronie on each arm. Harry squirmed, trying his best to free himself of their monsterous, bruising grip.  
>"Hold him. You see, Harry's got a problem. His mouth doesn't work properly. It says things that it ought not say. So I'm going to have to fix it up a bit.."<p>

With that, Draco hit Harry in the mouth, his fist cracking against Harry's teeth. With Crabbe and Goyle holding him, Harry was an easy target, no matter how much he twisted and writhed.

Even as he was doing it, Draco wasn't clear on the reasoning behind his actions. Sure, Harry needed to know how things were and if Draco had to put him right then that's exactly what would be done, but it almost seeemed as though it wasn't real - Harry was his friend. He felt for Harry. They were kindred spirits, somehow. Harry understood him.. or could, at least.

Draco felt something warm on his fist and it stayed his hand. Harry was bleeding from the nose, and his glasses were on the floor near Draco's feet. Draco suddenly felt very very wrong, very out of place. The mark on his arm burned.

"Let him go. Leave him with me," he ordered, but Crabbe and Goyle still held him. Harry sank in their arms and they kept him up. He was conscious but out of it - Draco had gotten him pretty bad.

"I said leave me with him. Just go on without me. I'll be there in a minute, alright? Now go."

Reluctantly, Crabbe and Goyle released Harry, and he slid down the wall, tired and hurting. His lip had been split at the corner, and his nose was bleeding down his chin and mouth. It made his lips red and brilliantly shining. Wet and hot. Draco could smell his blood.

Harry looked up at Draco, out of breath. His watery green eyes were asking Draco a million questions, asking him to confront certain things that he wasn't ready to face yet. He looked so angry, then, and somehow ashamed. Draco couldn't meet his eyes.

Draco reached for Harry's glasses and tucked them in Harry's breast pocket, apologetically.

"Harry, you have to understand," Draco said, and Harry looked at him in the face. His whisper echoed up against the arched ceiling of the corridor, refected dimly on the ancient stained glass that depicted the first five order of merlin.

"Get away from me," Harry said, shoving him away vehemently with disgust. "Just get away from me."

Draco huffed and came towards him, close to his face. The scent of Harry's blood was so strong that he could taste it when he breathed. Harry shoved his glasses on his face and met Draco with a head on stare, some kind of dangerous anger slowly bubbling up through all the layers of shock and confusion.

Draco swallowed and let his mouth frame Harry's bottom lip, tasting the blood that his own angry fists had brought forth. It technically, in Draco's mind, could not be considered a kiss - the act in itself was a million times more profound, more justified and.. true. This was the expression of all of the things that neither of them would dare to say, and if it had the effect that Draco was hoping for all of Harry's questions would be answered, his quandries silenced.

This was just the way it had to be.

"Please don't hate me," Draco whispered against Harry's lips, before he ran away.

In the time young Ginny spent with Voldemort and her brother in the great abandoned building, she learned of her father's whereabouts, and why he had been kept there. Apparently Percy wasn't so devoted to the cause that he would give up his flesh and blood, and this dissapointed Ginny. Apparently, he had used his status within the circle to pull enough strings, managing a small cell for his father in one of the basements of the building.

She had visitied her father in his small cell, and held his hand as they spoke. She kept her eyes on the little patch of sunlight on the floor when he asked her what happened to the girl he thought he knew so well. She knew that she had changed, and she wasn't sure she wanted her father living a world where he could see what his baby girl had become. Not that she disliked herself. That seemed to her to be the bittersweet final, ironic touches.

"I'm happy, Daddy. I like it here. I belong here. But you mustn't feel bad that I've turned out this way, you know.. It isn't so very much your fault."

However well Voldemort seemed to tolerate her, it was not as easy for young Percy. Increasingly, he found himself serving the Dark Lord below his little sister, which bothered him emmensely. She would sit with him for hours, faithfully awaiting the day when she would get her darling Tom back.

Voldemort also began to send her on routine checks around the compound, assessing the production of their ghastly rag-doll army, which was made up of primarily mismatched limbs and re-created bodies.

Some of the most impressive creations were the giants; the three enormous corpses had to be shrunk just to get them into the building. They had then been taken apart, improved upon, and sewn back together hastily.

Dispite however high she advanced through the ranks of Voldemort's followers, Ginny began to grow restless when it came to the actual execution of their plans. She began to pester Lucius about Draco's progress - how did you say Draco was? Oh? And how is Potter? Just when was it that you've arranged for him to bring Harry to us?

After several weeks of this, Ginny came to Lucius with a revelation straight from Voldemort himself: If Harry Potter was not in their posession by New Years Day, there would be a heavy, heavy price to pay.

Feeling the heat of this sudden urgency, he made for Hogwarts at once.


	18. Confusion

the 23rd

He had begun to dream of the grime again.

When he slept, he found himself in that certain nameless place, the familiarity of the pisspaper room and the building with its long institutional hallways and that horrible fucking stink that gets in his nostrils.

In his dreams, he is hungry; searching for the little boy that he had had that terrible, unforgettable night. He knows that it is wrong, the way he's going.. The hallways twist and whisper, leading him away from the place that he knows he's supposed to be. But when he sleeps he doesn't care, because he's distracting himself. Looking for someone.

Sometimes, it's Harry.

His jaw clenches as he wanders subconscious pathways, clutching his wand in his hand. The farther away he gets, the sicker things become. They start to feel wrong, dark. Seductive. His groin aches as he watches layers of nasty filth creep their way up the walls like shadows, stains seeping out of nowhere... bleeding across the floors, trying to soil him. He knows it wants him.

But what is it?

He feels it flowering nastily inside him, as though his tissues were twisting underneath his skin; turning pale, gelatine, tumorous white... Deforming, growing more layers and pockets and extra meat, making more places for that certain pernicious influence to hide.

Just before he wakes up, he feels himself wanting to let it have him, suck at him, fuck the life out of him, absorb him into it's endless grand absence.

Due to the return of these unfortunate dreams, Draco was unable to concentrate properly when he was summoned to Dubledore's office that night.

The faces of Dumbledore, Snape, McGonagall and a man Draco vaguely recognized as Sirius Black around the table were candlelit and weary. The flames cast high shadows on the walls behind them, and the tower was just a bit too warm, too stale.

Draco watched them in a state of ominous silence. It disturbed him to hear them talk of Harry so, especially after what he had done. Of course, they had all known right away what had happened, knew what had occurred between Draco and the boy who lived.

Draco had received a stern reprimanding from each of them, who in turn pleaded with him not to destroy the only chance they had of defeating Voldemort.

They related these urgencies to him as if he were a child who was unaware of the dire importance of his behaviour. This bothered him, and so Draco in turn chose to tune most of it out, only allowing himself to hear half of what they told him.

However, finally, Dumbledore quietly requested that Snape, Sirius, and McGonagall leave the room, and Draco observed him standing at the window with his hands folded behind his back.

Though he wasn't sure why, this got Draco's attention in full. Not for the first time, he felt as though his mind's eye had taken a picture. The image of Dumbledore there would remain with him forever, and there would be a time far from now when he would recall it.

"I'm sure that your interactions with Harry must be a bit.. confused.."

Draco swallowed.

"However, what you've done is inexcusable."

Dumbledore allowed this to sink in for a second before continuing on.

"I am also quite sure that the mark on your arm will always want you to chose a less friendly manner. Obviously, you have already allowed it to dictate your thinking and actions to the point where you actually thought physically a friend would solve a conflict."

Draco kept his eyes on the carpet, hands in his lap. Something about Dumbledore made him feel bad; worse than he wanted to feel about what he'd done, and certainely worse than he thought he should feel. Maybe it was the fact that Dumbledore had referred to Harry as a friend. Something in him clenched.

...But only a little.

"He's not my friend." Draco defended, darkly. He couldn't muster the conviction to raise his voice above a whisper, however. Not to Dumbledore, not about this.

"Not anymore, no." Dumbledore said.

"Draco, I will be so proud of you when you learn to control your self." Dumbledore turned and came to sit across from him, strangely animate for someone so.. old.

"I know you don't want to serve Voldemort. So I'm going to ask you to stop acting as though you do. That mark is a direct link to all the trouble in the world, and you're going to have to be very strong if you're going to resist it."

Draco considered this.

"It's the pure of heart that triumph over evil, Draco." he said, wisely. He said it as though it were some great secret.

Draco's expression betrayed him- he did not understand.

"Voldemort is counting on you to suffer. He is dependent on you to make mistakes with Harry. And if you give in, you're giving him exactly what he wants."

"What do you want me to do?" draco had asked, quietly.

"I want you to do the right thing."

But he had already made plenty of mistakes, and he knew it. It heaped upon his consciousness overwhelmingly, one more horrible thing he had done. He already avoided leaving the Slytherin common room (he was even willing to suffer the company of Pansy and his mother), for fear of seeing Harry. The Slytherins, however, were quite delighted with Draco, and he had to endure their constant congratulatory, superior remarks with a tight smile.

The things Dumbledore had said haunted him and he found himself dwelling upon it helplessly. what bothered him most was that through it all, there was noone he could talk to as he had been able to talk to Harry.

His fingers twitched and someone's voice cut in through the layers of contemplation.  
>Snape, Sirius, and McGonagall had returned.<p>

"The potion is completely prepared. It's simply waiting to be ingested."

Dumbledore wondered over this, he and Minerva exchanging glances with one another out of the corner of their eyes. Minerva cleared her throat.

"I still don't understand why such risks have to be taken.. I feel that we should simply keep Harry away from Voldemort all together..."

"We have all decided that this is what has to be done. You simply cant go back on it now." Snape said tartly.

"I'm not going back on my decision, I'm merely voicing a few last minute.." Minerva answered tightly, her subtle dislike of the situation showing perhaps a little too much. However, before she could finish, Snape interjected, his love of playing devil's advocate shining like a treasure as he spoke.

"Keeping harry here at Hogwarts with more than most of the wizarding world sleeping inside these walls is a tragedy waiting to happen. You know that." he said, and everyone was silent.

"We've gone too far already, things are already in order."

Dumbledore cleared his throat. "What do you think about all of this, Sirius?"

Everyone's eyes focused on the dark man at the end of the table. He sat back in his chair, his face a carnival of shadow. "I think I want to know why you think delivering Harry into the hands of Voldemort will benefit you anything at all." he said, pointedly.

Draco looked up at everyone. "Wait," he said. Everyone turned to look at him, eyebrows raised.

"You actually want me to get him to Voldemort? how?"

Snape rolled his eyes and made a noise of disgust. "I don't know how we can expect to get anything accomplished when you don't PAY ATTENTION."

Minerva was slightly gentler. "The room that your father tried to link up to our network here at Hogwarts.. was allowed for the sake of transportation," she said tactfully.

Draco blanched. "You can't be serious."

Everyone simply looked at him.

the 24th

When Lucius arrived he found dinner just ending. He observed a few wizards who lingered here and there upon the stair that lead into the great hall, and the two chatting men cut eyes at one another as Lucius past, his tall, thin frame elegant in black robes and cloak. Lucius pulled his fine black gloves around his wrist a bit tighter and pressed beyond them.  
>"..Reckon ol' You-Know-Who wouldn't have 'im anymore."<p>

He passed through the unchanged passageway and found the great hall still relatively alive with after-feast chatter, friendly witches bantering hushed, lips pressed to their ales.  
>Eyes searching for Narcissa (or better yet Draco), he stood near the fringe of the Christmas decorations, stepping out of the path irritably as two children dashed their way merrily past him, laughing. Hawkish eyes searching for his heir, he made his way through the great hall, towards the Slytherin commons.<p>

As Lucius' arrival was unexpected, Draco suffered under the crushing presence of his father, and depressed, he felt himself sliding ever so slowly into the niche his parents had tried so hard to carve out for him...  
>Sometime before Lucius arrived in Narcissa's rooms, three great trunks appeared in the center of the room before the fire. Draco, who had been sitting on the edge of his mother's bed, reading one of her fashion magazines unhappily, looked up. Of course he knew what it meant right away- who else could it possibly be?<p>

His stomach sank a little.

Narcissa stepped out of the bathroom, looking at him expectantly. Her long, thin, elegant self draped in what must've been yards of midnight blue velvet, which had been enchanted to shift and twinkle like the nigh time sky.

Draco was suddenly no longer interested in observing his mum model her newest winter wardrobe. His mouthed opened and he began to say "I think father migh-"

The door to her apartments burst open and lucius swept in, a towering pillar of darkness and urgent consequence.  
>"Darling," she said, pushing up the charming white satin gloves that held her arms. Lucius took off his own gloves and set them down, withdrawing a large black parasol umbrella from under his cloak. Draco watched him do this, uncomfortably aware of the fact that it was not unlike the one he and Harry had shared that time some time ago, before everything had gone sour.<p>

Draco blinked and reached for it, his parents losing themselves in idle banter. He wasn't sure why they chatted so, it wasn't as though they actually liked one another. It seemed a little strange to him that they would rely on such formality, even when they were away from other people..

It didn't matter.

Slowly, he undid the umbrella and it came to life, a huge dome of shadow blooming over his head. He pulled it down over himself and sat further back upon the bed, the very pointed point of the parasol peircing up into the fabric of the canopy.

Later that evening, his father pulled him aside to inform him menacingly that when Lucius had been a boy he would have leapt at the chance to aide the Dark Lord in such a way.

"This is the most fantastic chance you'll ever have to really make something of your worthless self." he had told Draco passionately.

the 25th

Draco awoke to find his mum sitting in her parlour, staring out the open windows lifelessly while Lucius dahed about, packing up his bags in the next room. When he found Draco to be awake and standing in the doorway, he immediatley started in.

"You've got untill new years," he told his son, who stood with his hair rumpled and unstyled, itching at his stomach through his shirt.

"..To do what?" Draco asked.

"Don't give me any of that." Lucius said, snapping one of his trunks closed. Draco, already irritated with him, felt his lip twitch a little.

"To do what?" he repeated coolly.

Lucius spun around and seized him up by the arm. "You know perfectly well what I mean and I will have no more of your games today, young man." He uttered all of this tersely through tightly clenched teeth, before releasing Draco loathingly.

"Potter will be ours," he said, as though he wanted to speak no more of it.

Draco was so angry that it took him until after lunch to open his presents. At first, he hadn't wanted to open them at all- they were from him, after all, and he was an incredible bastard. But then, he reasoned, he really did want to know what was all wrapped up beneath those brightly coloured tinsels and papers foiled in powdered moonsugar...

Everyone gathered together like cattle in the great hall to eat, exchange gifts and commemorate those lost in tragedies of consequence.

Harry accompanied the Weasley family down, and sat between Fred and George at the table. Their condition had much improved since Mrs. Weasley had arrived, but with the disappearance of Ginny everyone's spirits were somber.

Across the room, Draco was sitting somewhat uncomfortably between his mother and father. Narcissa, who'se plate was empty, found herself consistently draining glasses of pink champagne, while Lucius ate neatly from a steaming plate. Draco picked at his food, but felt uneasy.

He kept his head down most of the time, was extra careful not to look towards where Harry sat.

Harry had spent most of Christmas week in a nervous, plagued state of anxious anticipation- what should he do, did he suppose? It wasn't as though he could really tell Hermione and Ron what had happened.. what was still happening, playing out and occurring at this very moment... don't look...

Ron was hard enough to get along with lately; Harry certainly didn't want to start world war three. No, there was just no way to get around it. Should he go after Draco, and find him? What would he say if he did?

He let himself look, finally. Why had he done it? Harry so wanted to believe that Draco wasn't really..

On the one hand, Harry was angrier than he'd ever been with Draco. It seemed in his mind there was a strange sort of division; he recalled a time before he had really known the Slytherin, when Draco had simply been 'Malfoy'.

He hated what Draco had done to him, hated the way Draco made him feel. He loathed to think of how the Slytherin had disarmed him, taken him down and then left with the last word, perfectly composed.

Maybe Draco really had said all those things. Harry wouldn't put it past him, now. He never should have in the first place.

The realization would be a stinging one. Feeling that Draco had been destined to do Harry wrong from the start made things much more bearable, somehow. There was an ease in being pessimistic. It was more believable this way. He was just..

Combined with the confusion of Draco's anti-kiss and his mixed signals, he grew very confused. He didn't even know if they were friends- how could he possibly determine if they were anything more?

"Harry?" Hermione asked.  
>"Harry? What're you staring at?"<br>Harry turned to look at Hermione, pushing his glasses back up on his nose.  
>"Nothing."<p>

By the twenty eighth, Harry was so neurotic that he found he couldn't leave the Gryffindor common room, for fear of running into Draco- or even worse, Draco, Crabbe and Goyle.

that night, in desperation, he decided to go see Sirius.

The halls and corridors were surprisingly quiet, taking in account how many people were at Hogwarts just then. But he supposed that most people wanted to be with their families, and were tucked away somewhere.

That was when he heard the voices, arguing passionately between themselves about something one of them had yet to do. As he crept forward, the voices became clearer, more distinguished.. familiar, even.

"I mean it," the first voice argued. "We've only got a window of a few more weeks, and ideally you would've been finished with this ridiculous Potter business months ago!"

Harry's brow furrowed... Potter business?

His curiosity peaked, he crept forward and stuck his head cautiously around the corner. Was that Lucius Malfoy? Someone's arm came forward for just a second, and then the second voice spoke.

"You won't ever possibly understand how complicated all of this mess is. Ever."  
>Harry swallowed. It was Draco.<p>

Harry watched Lucius lean forward and seize Draco by his collar threateningly. "I don't care how complicated it is. Finish it." He shoved Draco away disgustedly then, and stormed off the other way. Draco stood there for a minute, and then turned and went opposite his father.

Deeply troubled, Harry pondered what he should do. Did Lucius know, somehow, that they had been friends? What was more interesting was that the argument implied that they still were friends. Granted, for a time Harry doubted their friendship all together, but now.. now not only had they been friends but there was the possibility that they could actually be more.

His mind went wild at the possibility that somehow Lucius might know about this, too. But that was not only unlikely, it was unrealistic, as well.

Climbing the stairs to Dumbledore's office, his head hung in thought. He knocked, and then entered. Sirius was perched in a chair facing the door, hands in his lap.

"I have to talk to you." Harry said, coming to sit near him.

"Alright," Sirius agreed, closing the magazine he had been looking at. "You've got my undivided attention."

"I think I might be in love," Harry said, and grimaced.

Sirius raised an eyebrow.

"Only, the person I'm in love with might not love me, but they kissed me.. so that means something, doesn't it? And sometimes they rather make me feel like they might love me, but other times I think they're terrible.. and Ron won't really talk to me because of Malfoy and I can't tell Hermione about it because she's a girl and I can't talk to girls about these kinds of things and it's Christmas." he finished miserably.

Harry sat down, his head bewilderedly caught in his hands.

Sirius nodded quietly.

"I.. see," he said slowly, and sat forward. "Alright.. Well. This girl you think you love, she kissed you.. then what?"

Harry blushed and thought of Draco.

"She.. well. She ran away.."

Sirius smiled. "My best guess is that she wants you to know how she feels, but got so flustered by it that she had to get out of it. If you really want to be with her you ought to go to her and tell her how you feel... she probably scared herself."

Harry nodded slowly. Sirius was telling him the exact opposite of what he wanted to hear, no matter how true he knew it was.

Harry wanted to talk to sirius about the conversation he'd overheard Draco and his father having, but couldn't bring himself to do it. The more he thought about it, the fuzzier his memory of it seemed to be.

"Now, about this Malfoy business.."

Harry looked at him. What would Sirius say if he knew the truth, that the 'girl' that had kissed him was, in fact, not a girl?

"that's quite a shiner you've got, harry.."

Harry looked away.


	19. Betrayal

december 30th

The institution that had once been his orphanage teemed with false life.

There were entire rooms in the western wing of the building full of the worlds finest dark wizards and witches, inventing an entirely new kind of magic all together. It took elements from transfiguation and medicinal magic and twisted it up with all kinds of darkforce spellwork. They toiled night and day, converting magic into math and back again, breaking down the formulas.. filling in the blanks..

Creating an entirely new form of enchantment all together.

It was a factory of marvels.

Wizards stood atop ladders, attempting to give life to things that no longer lived.

The lower minions, (people who had only joined with voldemort recently) were sometimes found hanging round, waiting to catch a glimpse of this remarkable practice. Word spread through one wizard to another, and amongst the Death Eaters a great excitement was felt. they were breaking entirely new ground- the revolution would be theirs. Noone had ever done anything of this nature before, had they? Certainely not.  
>It was widely reguarded a taboo in the wizarding world, the idea of restoring the life after it had flickered out of something. In fact, most considered it all together impossible.<p>

Wouldn't they be surprised.

Their collection of cadavers had grown, and was now fairly impressive. Once the enchantments had been worked out, most of the actual corpses wouldn't be needed untill they held Potter in their posession, and so they were left alone to rot, stacked in piles held up high with strictly re-enforced spells, like pillars of limbs and twisted flesh.

It would be a great triumph for them, to unleash this un-natural beast of an army upon their enemies, and everyone looked forward to it with a smug confidence.

However, none of this improved voldemort's personal situation.  
>He was dying, and there were times when it was felt that no ammount of magic could possibly change this.<p>

Wizards came and went from his rooms, loyal servants tending to him with the greatest respect and care. They brought him balms and salves and things to swallow, strange concoctions and brews meant to prolong his constitution.

Ginny had been there when Lucius Malfoy came to Voldemort. And she watched on as Lucius kissed his rotting hand and assured him that he would have Potter soon. So soon... Lucius tried not to be deterred by the grotesqueness of his Dark Lord, but eventually Voldemort's vile stench made his sit back.

"I should hope so," Ginny said spitefully from her seat beside Voldemort's bed. Lucius gave her a murderous look and pleaded with Voldemort to be patient for just a bit longer.

Ginny rolled her eyes.

"We've given you long enough, Malfoy. In fact, we're beggining to feel as though you've been leading us astray... isn't that right, darling?"

Voldemort looked at lucius, terribly unimpressed. "Get out of my sight," he rasped, and Lucius was so shamed and so terribly angry that he did just that.

december 31

Draco, for all his hoplessness and oblivious confusion, found himself in the company of Snape, which helped little to cheer him.

He could no longer tolerate the companionship of his mother, who insisted on keeping company with Pansy Parkinson. They had him in for him, those two did. As he crept away from his mother's lovely apartments and down the dungeon corridor, he imagined with much regret that they were probably planning his wedding, deciding what colour the ribbins on the bouquets would be..

The cold had made him shivery and the bad weather had soured his constitution. His arm burned terribly and his longing for Harry was soaring to irrational heights. Devious, snickering, perverted little parts of him wanted to go to Harry, to see him, to talk to him.. but he knew really that he couldn't go... he couldn't go anywhere.

Crabbe and Goyle had slunk off to somewhere and he dreaded leaving the haven of the Slytherin dungeons for fear of encountering them and being enticed by obligation to mob around with them.. How uncomfortable he felt in his place, uneasy in their presence.

So he went to the potion master, who was sitting at a terribly scattered desk, writing down spells and recipes and bits of information, making another grimore for noone.

"Professor?" he asked, standing in the doorway.

Snape turned his head and gave the boy a dissapproving look, as if he hadn't the time. "What is it?" he asked, annoyed as he set down his quill.

Draco hesitated. "My arm hurts rather alot, and it isnt as if I can really go to Madam Pomfrey or anything.." There was a certain ammount of pointed pride in his words, as if he had validated himself and his reason for being there.

"I see. Come in, then." He said, dismissevly, and went back to writing. Draco stood there awkwardly for some time, waiting for Snape to attend to him. It was only when Draco finally woked up the nerve to clear his throat.

Snape threw down his quill and shoved his chair backward, crossing the room in a terribly unpleasant mood. He rummaged through a cupboard or two and finally produced a dusty jar of salve. "Put this on your arm," he instucted shortly, thrusting it into Draco's hand.

The boy rolled up his sleeve and slid the substance over his burning skin, rather repulsed by the stuff. Instantly, his arm went warm and numb and Draco felt better, if only slightly.

"What is it?" Draco asked, looking up at the potions master.  
>"You don't want to know," he said darkly, and Draco was silenced.<p>

Lip curled in disgust, Draco edged towards the door. "I'm going to be going.. mind if I keep this?" he asked, holding the small round jar in his hand.

"Don't put it anywhere near an open flame," Snape advised mysteriously from his desk, where he had re-seated himself.

"Right." Draco said, closing the door behind him. Restlessly, he decided to go to his own room, for lack of anything better to do..

While Ron and Hermione kept each other company downstairs in the common room, Harry was upstairs shuffling through his trunk, trying to be as quick about it as he could. Soon enough he was wrapped up in the cloak that had been his father's, the cloak that allowed him to see but not be seen.  
>Vaugley he knew where it was that he was going, but he did not know why.<p>

He supposed it was the kiss that had drawn him there in the end, and not everything else that went along with it. Standing outside of the door to Draco's dorm room, he praised himself on his sence of stealth.

It had certainely taken him long enough to get inside the Slytherin common room. He waited for nearly fourty-five minutes before a group of first years came along with their parents, giving him chance to slip in along side them.

And it hadn't been that hard, finding Draco's room. But Harry was rather surprised to find him just sitting there, alone and in the quiet. Where were the other boys, Harry wondered? Should he make himself known? What would he say if he did?

After a long time, with Draco simply sitting there, unmoving, he decided to speak.

"Draco," he said, from behind him, dropping his cloak. Draco blinked and turned to look at him, heart leaping back into sudden, thunderous life.

"Harry. How did you get in here? Are you mad? You're going to get caught! I'M going to get caught! You've got to go. I told you. We can't be friends anymore. I thought I made it clear." It was rather remarkable, the exposion of animation that suddenly posessed him.

"We aren't anymore," Harry said, and his words struck Draco silent and hurt him.

"But you kissed me," Harry said, blankly. "And I want to know why."

"That wasn't a kiss!" Draco insisted, defensively. "I was tasting your blood," he barked, trying to make it seem as menacing as he possibly could. "Anyway, kisses are sweet."

Harry looked at him, glasses on the bridge of his nose. He came a bit closer and sat on Draco's bed, beside him. Harry hardly knew what to say to Draco. He rather seemed like a stranger again.

"Why are you doing this?" Harry asked, rather desperatley.

"Doing WHAT, exactly?" Draco asked.

"This. All of this. I don't understand you." Harry said, trying to hold Draco's eyes with his own, but Draco looked away.

"That full well ought to be your first clue." Draco said, unhappily.

"You have to leave, Harry." Draco said again.

"I won't go untill you tell me!" Harry challenged, and Draco moved to shove him from the bed, angrily. Harry slid from the bed and ripped Draco with him, Draco fighting all the way. "What's it to you whether or not it was a kiss?" Draco shouted, kicking and tearing at Harry's hair angrily. Harry's glasses were lost in the scuffle, lft lying on the floor. Harry had his arm around Draco's neck, attempting lamely to strangle him.

"It's everything to me!" he yelled back mady, tightening his grip.

"Get off of me," Draco snarled, worming out of Harry's grasp. "Just don't touch me," he wheezed, winded from their fight.

Harry looked at them, painfully aware of how close they were to one another.

"What do you want me to say to you?" Draco asked, disgusted by the whole of it. "You know how I feel!"

"No, I don't!" Harry professed helplessly to Draco, eyes great and green and watery.

As much as Draco protested, it did little to stop Harry. He drew close to Draco and slid an arm around him, though Draco squirmed, wanting the truth and purity of their strange kinship to be restored, but not wanting to give in to Harry just yet. Draco found there was little he could do in defense.. it wasn't as if he really wanted to send Harry away. Not really.

In fact, underneath it all, a large part of him was practically singing with happiness.

And so they settled against one another and grew silent, the warmth of Draco's breath behind Harry's ear a curious new sensation. Idly, he toyed at the buttons at Draco's throat, undoing them.

"Just let me stay with you for a little while..." Harry pleaded, his glasses still off his face.

"Maybe just for a little while," Draco said, very meekly. He pressed his forehead against Harry's and sighed.

A few more buttons were undone.

"Harry.. what're you doing? Don't."

Two more buttons. "Why not?" Harry teased.

one more and his shirt was open, hanging against his pale, concaved chest.

Draco swallowed, uncomfortably. Harry wasn't supposed to ever see this much of him.

"You can't stop me," Harry said, his voice low and.. oh..

"I can." Draco said, defiantly.

"But you won't.."

Harry slid Draco's shirt off of his shoulders and grinned his lopsided, friendly grin. "Harry, I'm serious," Draco warned, reaching for his shirt. Harry snatched it out of his grasp and Draco reached for it again, bare arms extended, fingers clutching for it.

Harry laughed and held it higher, completely amused. Draco, however, was not. If Harry saw the Dark Mark on his arm he was done for.

Draco tried to jump, to seize it, but suceeded only in knocking into Harry. There was a pause and their faces drew close. As Harry leaned in to kiss him, he stopped abruptly.

"What's that?" Harry asked, snatching Draco's arm and bringing the mark closer to his face for inspection.

Draco pulled his arm away and retreived his shirt from Harry's hand.

Harry looked at him, astonished.

"What.."

It took him a second, before the realization dawned across his features and his green eyes clouded over, scandalized. Suddenly, he no longer desired to linger.

"I should have known," Harry said bitterly after a moment, hurt beyond comparison by this undeniable truth burned into Draco's skin.

"Give me my glasses," he said, shortly. When draco simply stood there, frozen in his spot, he snapped. "I said I wanted my damned glasses!" he yelled, and Draco stooped to pick them up. He handed them to him reluctantly, almost as though he were afraid of what Harry might do in such a state.

Harry shoved them onto his face and stormed out, heedless of the fact his cloak was still in Draco's room.

When he reluctantly returned much later to Draco's dorm to fetch his cloak, he found Draco still shirtless, curled upon his bed, with Snape beside him.

snape looked up first, and saw the boy there, looking dark eyed and deeply unhappy, but not at all surprised.  
>"Perhaps you had better come in here, Mister Potter." Snape said, and from his tone of voice, it almost sounded as though he were in trouble.<p>

Draco was sitting up then, reaching for his drink on the bedside table. He looked scrawny and pale.  
>"It seems as though you and Mister Malfoy have some rather tangled affairs to deal with." Harry huffed.<p>

"So I suggest that you sit yourself down in this chair and attempt to make right this disgusting mess you've made."

Harry flared with anger at his words. The mess HE had made? He stood rigdily behind the back of the chair, a silently pathetic act of rebellion.

"Sit," Snape barked, and Harry did.

Snape poured Harry a glass of something and handed it to him. "Have a drink, Potter."

Harry's very first instinct was to dump it out- he didn't trust Snape. A man who spent his free time making deadly concoctions was not a man you wanted to accept drinks from. However, Draco (who wouldn't look at him) was sipping from his own cup, and he seemed fine enough.

Reluctantly, he took a drink, and then another. It wasn't bad.

Draco kept his eyes on the bedspread, so when Harry took another sip and promply passed out, he did not see it. The cup dropped to the floor, and the liquid contents of the chalice soaked into the ancient rug, a dark pool around the Gryffindor's feet.

Draco looked up, suddenly unnerved. "What happened?" he asked, alarmed. He climbed from the bed and went to Harry's side, investigating him.

"I've put him to sleep," Snape said.

"He will be easier to transport that way," the potions master said, and Draco's insides grew cold. So this was it; his greatest betrayal against Harry yet.

They were going to take him to voldemort.


	20. Task completed

"Hurry up, Boy."

"I hope you know that I DO hate you," Draco fumed in response, nostrils flared as he exhaled, exerting his strength.

Draco pulled with all his might, the heels of Harry's converse knocking against the stairs as they slowly made the climb upward.  
>Harry looked dead, he kept thinking to himself, and it was steadily upsetting him to a point. At this rate, he was going to have himself hysterical. His mind was slowly oozing out all the paranoia and latenight subconscious terror, personified in the vision of Harry's limp body sliding down the stairwell because Draco's grip was not so firm.<p>

After he went to retrieve him, he had the Gryffindor by the wrists, and was tugging him up the secret staircase behind the old transfiguration/anatomy room. Snape, several stairs above him, lingered impatiently, holding his lit wand aloft to light their way.

"And I hate this and I hate myself. I'm going to get you someday, you foul stain. You stink of a man, so help me god.."

"Do not speak to me like I was your father," Snape said cooly.

"Shut up."

"You'll be able to complain about this for months afterward." snape said in tones of mock consolation as he reached the landing. He pushed the ancient weighted door open, wand held high.

There, in the tiny room, was perhaps the largest bed Snape had ever seen. It's expanse was covered by a country of a quilt, a million patches in a million different colours, stitched together with forget-me-not thread.  
>It's great wooden frame was thick and titanic, such that there was scarcely enough room to open the door.<p>

Snape withdrew a pocket watch from his cloak and checked it with calculating eyes. Dumbledore would be here any minute..

"If you were any slower," Snape taunted.

Three more steps, two more. Draco cringed when Harry's poor limp head lolled and flopped, the sound of his heels dragging, scraping the stones. Finally, Draco reached the landing. He let harry's prone arms drop, wheezing.

"I'm not moving him another inch." Draco said, livid eyes wide and bright. He peered into the room, surprised by the sight he saw.

"What's that doing there?" he asked, looking at Snape curiously.

"That," he said, "is where you're sleeping for the night."

With a wave of his wand and an utterance of Latin, Harry was suspended in air, a ragdoll. A flick of the wrist and Snape let him down (not so gently) onto the downy surface of the mattress.

"But I don't understand.." Draco said, troubled and urgent and more than a little upset.

"You haven't got to. From this point on, it is of no concern to you."

"But..!"

Snape dug in his robes and produced Harry's wand. "Give this to Potter when he wakes," he instructed.

With that, Snape shoved Draco in the room, knocking him backwards onto the bed. He slammed the door closed, and it shut with a soft click, washing his wand over the handle in a euphony of enchantment..

Noone would be able to get in after this.

"LET ME THE HELL OUT OF HERE, SNAPE!" Draco bellowed, banging the door.

Snape pressed his face against the door, and said:

"After this you can do nothing."

He met Dumbledore on the stair, and they exchanged information as they walked breathlessly, checking to make certain that everything was secure. At every window, entrance, door and courtyard, guards and watchers had been posted- and were to inform Dumbledore immediately if anything or anyone suspicious was seen creeping about the castle.

"We haven't got much time to get there," Snape said, checking a list of things from inside his robes.

"We can apparate once we get outside of Hogsmead. There are enough of us that by the time we arrive, others will already be waiting."

The hours seemed to roll away from him, like water streaming on glass.. Windowpanes. and Harry's hands... Time seemed unreal, and he was very tired. There was nothing he could, now. It was too late. He had sent them both to their graves, certainely.

Draco had always been plagued with the paranoia that his father might give him over to Voldemort, or make light of his life if so, to please the Dark Lord. On the other hand, if this wasn't so and he were spared, he would be highly regarded, a treasured asset in Voldemort's collection of henchmen. Complimented and praised for his betrayal against Harry.

Draco thought he would rather die.

The last thing Draco remembered seeing after he'd crawled beneath the covers of the great big bed was Harry's pale porcelain moon face, glasses askew on his face.

Draco chewed his upper lip and moved to lie close to him, wrapping an arm around his dearest friend, Harry Potter.

Lucius stalked his way into Voldemort's apartments, all smug smile and cock of the walkery. the lifelessness of the room was stifling, and Lucius dared not stay longer than to deliver his good news.

"Harry Potter is ours." 


	21. Fight

At first, he was aware of the hurt in his arm.

After that, the cold.

Then, it was the light.  
>Attempting pathetically to block the rays of the rising sun from his eyes, he turned over, and was met with the scent of someone's foulest morning breath ever.<p>

And that had been it for sleeping. He sat up, eyes wide and awake.

His first impression of the room around him was one of sick familiarity. He knew the floor beneath his feet, the horrible little chandelier hanging unhappily above his head, knew the wallpaper, the pissflower stains and the stink.. He had visited this place and knew it's great unrest, had tasted the flavor of it's dispair and run from it in his dreaming subconscious mind.

Instinct kicked in, and he was off the tiny bed, at the window. Of course, it was too high up for him to see out of, and the skyline of industrial muggle London smirked at him with its warehouses and it's broken windows.

Where was the god damned door? He questioned himself wildly. Where was the door? There has to be a door. There had to be.

A bolt of searing lightening pain rocketed itself up and down his arm, reverberating unmercifully against his bones. He sat down on the floor, eyes clear and wide. He was sobered, humbled by the sensation. He swallowed.

Across the room, Harry was still curled sleeping on the tiny waste of a bed, his fair face frowning and troubled.

Did he know? Draco wondered. Did some part of Harry's mind feel that everything was very very wrong? Couldn't he sense it!  
>Things got very quiet. Draco could hear Harry breathing, could hear himself wheezing- as though some kind of manic poison had released itself within his brain, and he were drowning in it.<p>

And all the while, Harry slept on. Why wasnt Harry waking up? The Slytherin crossed the room and got close to Harry's face. He was still breathing, but he wasn't conscious.

"Harry, wake up." He said, tugging at the sleeping Gryffindor's index finger.

"Come on, you've got to. Time to rise and shine.."

After what seemed like an endless ammount of this, he sighed.

"WAKE UP!" Draco screamed, and grabbed one of Harry's arms. He shook the Gryffindor voliently, desperately. "Harry. Harry, please.." Draco ventured, trying to bargain with the sleeping boy. "Please wake up.. I don't want to be alone.." he pulled at Harry's hands, trying to get him to stir.

"..I don't want to be alone here.."

Sometime after Draco tried to revive Harry, Harry woke naturally to a headache unlike any he had ever had before.

It peirced him like no other pain ever could, like a million flaming needles stabbing, searing his brain matter. He put his hands up to his head, heels of his palms digging into his eye sockets, trying to push at the pressure.

Draco had curled himself up on the floor beside the bed, waiting for something- anything to happen.

When harry sat up, he lifted his head.

"Draco?"

The blonde sat up. "Yeah."

"Where are we?" Harry asked, somewhat tensely.

Draco didn't answer.

"Where are my glasses? Have you seen them?" Harry asked, kicking out of the covers, his shoes still on.

"I don't know," Draco said, moving out of the way. He felt the distance between them in the play of their body language, in the way Harry moved.

"I can't see without them. Maybe they're in the bed someplace.." he tore through the tiny bed.

"Harry," Draco said. "Harry, they're in your pocket."

Harry felt himself for them and shoved them on his face, wincing painfully when his eyes focused. His heart sank when he saw the room, and he began to gather an idea in his mind of where he must be.

Draco wasn't quite sure what to say- so he kept silent.

"You lied to me."

"I-"

"..Why did you lie to me? Why didn't you tell me you had the Dark Mark?"

"I don't know. I didn't mean to lie to you, Harry, really. please.. if you just let me explain.."

"But you did. You lied to me." He said, words burning with fury and conviction.

"I suppose everything else you said to me, all those things you told me. Were those lies, too?"

Draco closed his mouth.

"I'm sure your father must be very proud," Harry said, bitterly.

He understood, now. Their entire friendship- the moments they had shared. All of this meant nothing. It had been un-real. A set up. Another one of Voldemort's attempts at Harry's life. And that was the truth.

His cheeks burned in humiliation at the thought of how draco must have laughed at him, must have told everyone all the things harry had said to Draco in secret.

He sat down on the tiny bed that screamed beneath his weight and wrapped the dirty, scratchy blanket around him.

Draco just looked at him. "You don't know anything about that," Draco started in, standing up. "And just so you know, you're the only person I've ever told the truth to in my entire life and I hate you for it."

"That's just fine with me." Harry said quietly, after Draco had spewed his foul disposition all over the both of them.

Draco sighed, disgusted. He threw the ancient feather pillow across the room where it landed with a thud beneath the window. "And you want to know something else? I hate myself even more for it."

"What?" harry asked, not really wanting to hear it.

"You were all I ever wanted." Draco confessed dispassionately.

"Oh, would you just SHUT UP?" Harry asked, exploding. "You are such a LIAR! You were NEVER my friend! You were just trying to CONVINCE me to trust you so you could bring me HERE! You NEVER wanted ME."

"That isn't true. I've always wanted you!" he shouted back. "Anyway, this was all a part of Dumbledore's stupid plan to take down Voldemort! I never wanted to betray you!"

"Just leave me alone." Harry said, darkly, though his curiosity was peaked intensely at the mention of Dumbledore. "Just leave me alone."

"Harry, I'm sorry I lied to you about the Dark Mark. I didn't think you'd want to be friends with me if you knew the truth. Please.." he begged.

Harry shook his head stonily and turned away from Draco.

"Atleast take your wand," Draco said, and dug in his robes to pull it out. He offered it to Harry gingerly and Harry snatched it up, miserably.

Eventually, they ended up on opposite sides of the room, not facing eachother, not speaking. Draco found himself picking little spots of paint off of the floor, while Harry bit his nails to pieces.

Of course, they were both thinking very wildly about what had happened and what had been said, but neither had the courage or stamina left to start things up again.

Sometime later, after it had gotten dark and the night time chill began to creep its way through them both, a door formed itself in the center of the wall and four tall, spectral figures entered there. Behind them was Lucius Malfoy.

Draco swallowed. He really didn't like Dementors.

The four tall, spectral figures went across the room and seized Harry, who was strangley docile and sated. Draco realized he had lost consciousness.

Lucius stood above him, and Draco could feel his father's eyes staring down at him in the dark. Draco stood up, his back pressed into the corner of the room. He didn't say anything.

"I'm going to leave you here a might longer, Draco, but I want you to be prepared when I come to fetch you."

And like that, he was gone. The door was gone. Harry was gone.

Things were very quiet. Somewhere outside, a loud metal clang rang out.

But he could hear something else, if he listened long and hard enough.

A tiny voice coming from the floor, or maybe the walls, or the ancient metal heater in the corner, silently flaking it's paint. It was telling him the truth:

There's no way to undo this.. You can't hide from me.. You're a part of me, now. You're all a part of me now..

I'm already inside you.

I'm inside you.

One voice became two and three and five and then there were so many that Draco couldn't even make out what they were saying anymore. It was as though they were there within the walls themselves, treading where there were no rooms or doors. Frightened, he lurched and nearly vomited but couldn't. He buried his head in his arms, but it was no use, plugging his ears- that was silly. They were inside of him, hadn't they just said? He squirmed and screamed and kicked at the floor, but there was just no use.

Draco felt them, as though he were linked with voldemort, with the voices he heard, living truth of the terrible affirmations they gave him. He looked down at his arm and suddenly, a brilliant idea struck him.

This was the reason; this was the center of his distress, right there in his flesh. He went to the window and reached for the sill, finding precisely what he wanted: the shard of broken window pane that he knew would be there.

After that, he began to dig.

And it didnt matter how hard he screamed, or how much it hurt, or how much blood there was.. He would be free of this, and be finished with it forever.  
> <p>


	22. Dead

When Draco awoke he was in the dark and someone's steady hands were caring for him, soothing the terrible wound he had sustained unto himself. The skin had been dug out entirely where the dark mark had been, rather like a crater there. As he opened his eyes he vaguely recalled having to saw off a piece or two, his arm warmed by the continuous drizzle of blood that crept down his skin, sliding down his fingers, dripping sickly from his fingertips.

Some part of his mind had been yelling at him that it was too much.

Too much blood.

"What on EARTH were you thinking?" Someone asked with disgusted exasperation.

As he stirred, he turned his head to look at the voice.

Of course, he already knew it was Professor Snape, but he wasn't quite sure why or how Professor Snape had gotten there.

When he tried to sit up a little, he found that he could not.

His head rushed with the flood of a million different thoughts, some of them utterly random and mundane, although it felt that they were riddled with the most profound significance.. how important these mad, fleeting thoughts were.. Draco's eyes began to roll back into the safety of his skull.

Snape struck him across the cheek.

"When did you get here?" Draco asked, frowning at his inability to communicate properly the things he wanted to say. He felt drunk, somehow, and very confused.

"Shut up!" Snape snapped. "You've lost a fantastic amount of blood, Draco. What you've done is sick. Ill. Now, stop moving."

And then,

"What under god would posses you to do something like this?"

Draco felt a pain in his opposite arm and looked down find Snape sticking a great needle into the inside of his elbow.

His eyes bulged and followed the peculiar tube that was attached to the end of the needle, and Draco found the the other end was connected to Snape himself.

The man remained quiet, and Draco kept still until Snape withdrew Draco's needle first, then his own.

"Well, that hurt." Draco said faintly, with much resentment.

"I'm pleased to see that your condition has not dulled your unpleasant disposition."  
>Snape said coldly, standing up. "You'll live."<p>

While Snape put another layer of scab-aid bandages around his arm, Draco tried to communicate to Snape the urgency at which they needed to save Harry.

"First you need to see something, Mister Malfoy."

The smell made Harry sick.

Voldemort sat before him, wheezing horribly; decaying before his very eyes and surrounded by all the fools who followed him.  
>It worked to their advantage, of course, to be able to say that they had stayed with him and aided him when he was nearly dead, dying once again.<p>

He was being held much the way Crabbe and Goyle had held him before D..

It really was quite disgusting.  
>His skin looked soft and breakable, like you could press your thumb into his arm and wound him terribly. He reminded Harry of fruit left to sit too long, that rotted and liquefied when you tried to throw it in the waste basket. His face was misshapen and when he held up his hand Harry noticed that some of his fingers were missing.<p>

One of his eyes was swollen shut, the thick white substance milky and clotted around his eyelids, watering and quivering with the last remains of life.

Voldemort took a long look at Harry and waved his hand, as if he were finished with the boy. It made a wet noise as the joints and bones in his wrist pulled together against one another, struggling to control the gesture.

"Take him away," Voldemort said.

The men holding Harry hesitated. "I said, take him away!" He cried out, raising his voice. His yell lapsed into a pathetic cough that hacked nastily.

Snape helped Draco to stand and lead him through the door which hadn't been there before, down a long hallway. Draco felt as though he already knew which way they might turn, already knew the corners and hidden spaces of the building- the long forgotten secrets of the floor and walls.  
>"Just days ago, this place was inhabited.. full of people." Snape said as they passed through one corridor after another, leaving Draco to peer into empty room after empty room.<br>"Where have they all gone?" Snape queried rhetorically, his eyes widening madly as he asked.

Finally they reached a great open room. Winding around the length of the room was a railing, and Draco could see all the hallways and corridors leading back into the empty building from in the shadows, where they looked down upon the scene before them.

Across the great room, tied to the second floor railing was a great iron circle, it's rusted self heavy and anciently dirty. Quartered into four equal parts and about six feet across, there fixed to the center was a weak and docile Harry, confused and in pain but not conscious enough to put up a fight.

Of course, Voldemort didn't want to injur Harry's body too badly- afterall, soon enough it would be his own.

Sitting beside Voldemort were Ginny and Percy Weasley, and a woman Draco didn't recognize. It seemed as though they were waiting for something.

Draco pulled Snape farther back into the shadows and whispered, frantically,

"How are we going to get past all of them?"

Snape hushed him. "Stop."

"So what do we do?" Draco asked, urgently.

"We wait. Follow me.."

Far below, Voldemort had just asked Ginny if she were ready to begin. She nodded and smiled, and kissed Voldemort's rotting fingers adoringly. Helping Voldemort to rise, the two of them stood together, and atleast a hundred other men came forward, forming a great circle below Harry's hanging self.

They raised their wands towards heaven and Ginny began to chant.

Long stretches of butchered new-Latin that sounded harsh and wrong were coming from her mouth.

As the incantation steadied itself and the spell began to grow in intensity, it almost seemed as if the words themselves were speaking, reciting their own lines, annunciating the frightening cries that Ginny was merely host to.

The others began to speak as well, each reciting a unique and carefully formulated magical equation that all came together to form one complete power, one mammoth force of dark magic.

A swirling white mist began to creep from the end of everyone's wands, up towards Harry high above them, and down around Voldemort, standing in the circle below the Gryffindor.

Draco heard their words and came into the light, looking over the railing. His hands clutched the soft, grimy wood, his fingernails digging into the layer of filth that coated it.

"Do you see?" Snape asked urgently.

Because Voldemort's physical body was so near to death, it was his soul that flooded out first, and it swirled up at Harry nastily, stretching like tendrils of inky sickness through the sullied winter air.

The corpse that had been voldemort all but puddled on the floor. It crumbled and was merely a carcass, decayed as though it had been dead for months.

And that was when it occured to Draco that it didnt matter who'se body it was that Voldemort tried to invade.. he was simply too backwards.. too sick for life. His evil was enough to decay any living thing.. including himself.

Ginny continued her incantation, aware of her surprise that it was working.

Draco's eyes went to Harry.

The Gryffindor's head rolled on his neck and from his prone mouth, lips pale and ready-for-death blue, emerged the most glowing beautiful thing that Draco had ever seen. It mesmerized him, made him freeze in his place.

It blazed brilliant like a million burning suns, was warm and slick looking like liquid gold in the way it it seemed to unfold and ripple, stretching it's pure form slowly like it were waking from a long nap.

Harry's soul.

"Draco!" Snape said, and Draco took his eyes away from the lovely entity of Harry's essence. The longer Draco watched Harry's soul flow and swirl, the farther away from life and touch and flesh Harry became.

"Do you see what he's doing?" Snape clutched at Draco's arm, speaking into his ear. "It's the girl, Draco! Strike her and you shall strike Voldemort. Do it now!"

And just as the wickedest traces of voldemort began to slide down Harry's throat, to invade the most vulnerable tissues in his body, Draco raised his wand and cried out the only two words he could think of...

The last thing Ginny thought before she died was that the spell was almost over, and soon she would have everything that she had ever wanted. Everything that Tom had promised her.

There was a terrible flash of light, which obliterated everything in the boy's vision. He heard a roar unlike any noise he had ever heard before, like the very most fundamental parts of Voldemort's supernatural being were crying out in a rage that it had once again been cheated out of a chance to live.

It knocked him to the floor, the force of this sound, and when it was over he stood again to find Ginny's body unalive upon the floor. The Death Eaters in the circle too, were lifeless, and their bodies, which had had the life knocked out of them, remained in the form of a circle.

And there, standing behind Ginny, was a man with long dark hair. Sirius.

Momentarily, Draco wondered if perhaps it was he that had killed Ginny, and not Draco himself. The man's hand trembled visibly, his wand pointed at her. Draco watched Dumbledore come and fetch him at the arm, leading him away..

and Harry.

He's dead, Draco thought.

Harry's dead. 


	23. Black dog

Draco looked at Snape desperately. Snape was tugging at Draco's arm, pulling him back in to the shadows of the building, away from the railing.

"We've got to leave," Snape was telling him, but Draco heard little of what Snape said.

"What about Harry?" Draco asked, looking through the gloom to where Harry hung, limp and lifeless.

Snape shook his head. "There's nothing we can do for Potter now," Snape said.

"But.." Draco said, struggling to wrench himslf free of Snape's grasp. "We've got to help Harry," Draco insisted. The longer he looked at Harry, the more upset he became.

"We've got to get him down from there," Draco said, louder this time. "We've got to help him!" Draco was fast becoming hysterical. "We can't just leave him there!"

"It's time to go," Snape said again, pushing Draco against the wall.

"I want to see Dumbledore!" Draco shouted. He mde for the railing. "Sirius!" he cried. "We have to get Harry off of that thing!" Sirius peered up at Draco, startled, lowering his wand as he did so.  
>"Where's Dumbledore?" Draco railed, attempting to peel out of Snape's grasp. Draco made a dash towards the ruined stairs, thinking wildly that they might somehow levitate Harry down them, but..<p>

Snape reached out to grab Draco's arm and apparated with savage intention, pulling Draco unwillingly along beside him. He felt himself lurch through space, twisted and contorted until Draco felt his feet crunch on solid ground, and realized they were at the edge of Hogsmead village. Hogwarts sat in the near distance, still and calm.

"We have to go back," Draco demanded, pulling at Snape's sleeve. "We have to go back, we can't just leave him there! Please!" He pleaded. Snape looked at him, disgust flashing over his sallow features.

"How touching," He said, unenthusiastically, before pulling his sleeve free of Draco's grip and beginning the long walk towards Hogwarts castle.

Draco marched behind Snape, becoming more and more furious with every step. No matter how he begged and demanded, Snape said little, and would not honor Draco's request to go back.

"I'm going back." Draco said suddenly, and tried to apparate but failed. He stood there for a long time, thinking lamely to himself: Destination, determination, deliberation,' but nothing happened.

"Fool," spat Snape.

When Draco finally reached the castle his eyes were burning with frustrated tears.

All he could think of was that Harry had died thinking Draco had betrayed him, and Draco had. But Harry hadn't known Draco's true feelings, hadn't known how important Harry's company had been to him. He remembered Harry's smile as he had undone Draco's buttons, remembered the way Harry had almost kissed him, before spying the Dark Mark on Draco's arm. How angry Harry had been. It seemed that these things had happened years ago, instead of mere hours.

It was unimaginable to him that Harry was gone. Impossible to comprehend. Draco stood at the top of the staircase that led to the Slytherin Dungeons, his arm throbbing dully.

How would he ever live with himself, knowing that he should have done more for Harry, knowing that he should have explained himself more carefully, and had essentially sent Harry to his death? Draco felt sick, weak and weary. He wanted to lie down and not get up again, he wanted to go to bed and sleep forever. Numb, he wandered down the stairs and towards his dorm room without an upward glance.

Finding his dorm to be somehow free of Blaise, Crabbe and Goyle, he shut the door behind him and sat down upon his bed, staring at his hands. He sat so still that he could feel his heartbeat throughout his body.

Harry had been the closest thing to a real friend that he had ever had, and Draco would never see him again, would never speak to him again, would never find out if they really could have been more than just friends. Now that Harry was gone, Draco was reluctantly able to see just how much Harry had meant to him, to see how much Draco had wanted him.

He felt inconsolable, like he would never be well or normal again. Everything was lost, now. Things that had seemed terribly important to Draco only hours ago suddenly felt hollow and meaningless.

He felt as though the one thing that had given him hope had suddenly been wrenched from him, taken away. And what about Voldemort? Could he really be dead?

Draco put his head in his arms, pressing the heels of his hands in to his eyes to prevent the hot flow of tears that threatened.

What would Dumbledore say? Was the vanquishing of the Dark Lord worth the life of Harry Potter?

Draco didn't think it was.

When Crabbe and Goyle came in, Draco refused to speak them, and pulled the curtains around his bed shut, a frail kind of privacy. Curled up on his bed, he did not move or speak for the next 24 hours.

Draco couldn't be sure how much time had passed- he lay there in a kind of dream state, thinking only of Harry and how Draco had wronged him. The misery came in waves of regret and helpless anger, ebbing and flowing through him.

He heard the others wake and dress, going about their daily routine as though nothing had happened, as though Draco hadn't lost the one thing most precious to him. He hadn't realized how much he'd felt for Harry, hadn't counted on such a tumultuous mixture of emotions to rise to the surface. Though he was hungry, he made no move to get up, or stir at all.

Sometime in the evening, Draco heard the door to his dorm open and then close again. Soft footsteps crossed the room, and a hand with papery, ancient skin pulled the bed hangings back slowly.

Dumbledore stood over him, looking surprisingly sympathetic.

"Go away," Draco muttered, and turned over to face the other way.

"Draco, I must ask you to come with me." Dumbledore said gently. "I think I have something that might make you feel better."

Draco didn't answer at first, but he did sit up and look at Dumbledore.

"I doubt that," He said unhappily, crossing his arms over his chest. The wound on his arm suddenly hurt angrily, and he was vaguely aware that he needed to change the bandage. It was soaked through with blood- in his state he had not noticed that his wound was bleeding.

"You look awfully glum for someone who has helped defeat Voldemort," Dumbledore told him cheerfully.

Draco simply looked at him.

"Come," Dumbledore beckoned, and Draco climbed off the bed, joylessly.

He followed Dumbledore up the stairs and out of the dungeon, his apathy preventing him from asking questions or even really wondering where they were going.

Finally, after they'd crossed the castle, Dumbledore stopped outside the Hospital Wing and looked at Draco with a benign smile. "Just in there," He said, and motioned with a hand.

Draco pushed past him and through the door.

The hospital Wing seemed empty at first, but then Draco noticed that there was one occupant in a bed at the very end of the room. A white, sterile looking divider stood around the bed, blocking the occupant from view. Outside, the setting sun cast the room in a rosy, orange glow.

Draco's heart leapt. There was only one reason Dumbledore would bring him here, and before he knew it, he was running, skidding in his sneakers to the end of the room.

Behind the white partition lay Harry.

His eyes were closed and his breathing steady; Draco wouldn't have known that he'd been injured at all if he had simply seen him without knowing what had happened.

To Draco's surprise, he saw a large black dog sat at the end of Harry's bed. The dog raised his head as Draco slipped behind the partition, and then settled back down again, watching Draco intently with his head resting on his massive paws.

Draco was thankful that none of Harry's friends were there just then, and a lump the size of a grapefruit grew in the back Draco's throat. He tried lamely to swallow it back down again, but it was too late. Great, hot tears washed silently over Draco's cheeks, and a shuddery, life-affirming sense of relief flooded through him.

There was a straight backed chair by Harry's bed and Draco sank in to it, tears streaming blearily from his eyes. He wiped at them feebly, sniffling.

After he'd composed himself, he sat forward and looked at Harry's sleeping face.

"Harry," He said, quietly. The black dog raised his head again, as though curious to hear him speak.

"I am so sorry," He whispered. Draco's white hand darted out as though he meant to touch the sleeping Gryffindor, but he pulled it back before contact was made.

"I never meant to lie to you, I should have told you the truth from the very beginning. I know you must hate me.." Draco paused, feeling momentarily stupid. "I hate myself," he added, swallowing. "And I'm only saying this because I know you can't hear me, but I think I might sort of.. love you."

The great black dog stood and jumped down from the bed, moving to sit at Draco's feet. It put it's head on Draco's knee and gazed up at him imploringly. Draco scratched the dog behind his ears and managed a watery smile.

"Who'se a big dog?" He asked absently, stroking the dog's head. "Great brute. You're a friendly one, aren't you?" 


End file.
